Tarantella:
A Love Story
Inspired by a true story
By Siomonn Pulla
High Vibration Publications
www.highvibepubs.com
Tarantella: A Love Story
Siomonn Pulla
Copyright 2010 Siomonn Pulla
Second Edition Copyright 2014
Published by High Vibration Publications at Smashwords
Discover other titles by Siomonn Pulla at www.siomonnpulla.com
ISBN-978-0-9868782-2-0
Dedication
This novel is dedicated to the memory of Nonno Arturo and Nona Carmella. And to Zio Severino.
Chapter One
The Procession of La Madonna
I never intended to fall in love with Marco’s fiancé. That first time I saw her I knew I could never leave that tiny village alone.
It was August 17, 1944 and the procession of the Virgin Mary was on its way up to the top of the village. To the medieval Cathedral of Santa Maria., that still stood solid after centuries of earthquakes. The villagers were returning La Madonna to her resting place in the Cathedral for another year.
I still wonder if, in her seven sorrows, La Madonna ever really suffered a broken heart.
I guess it depends on whether you believe a broken heart is caused by the ill effects of the evil eye, and the naught enchantments of witches; or whether it’s just the price you pay for loving somebody so much it hurts.
I’m still unsure.
Carmella was part of the procession of La Madonna that hot August afternoon. She was leading the four men, who were obviously straining under the weight of the statue up the narrow cobblestone path to the Cathedral.
The look in her dark eyes, and the way her long brown hair outlined her face as she walked across the piazza was magical, as if she'd just walked out of a fairy tale.
"My Carmella, isn't she beautiful?" Marco noticed how I was watching his Fiancée’s lithe body move up the cobblestone street. "Didn't I tell you Pietro that she was the most beautiful woman in all of Limosano?"
“You’re a lucky man Marco.” I was secretly envious. “It must be nice to have all this waiting back home for you.”
"I'm sure you have many beautiful women back in your country,” Marco teased. “Once you go home they’ll be clamoring to be your bride."
"I don't think I ever want to go home now that I've seen how beautiful Italian women are."
"They are beautiful my friend, but also very dangerous." Marco slapped my back. "Now let’s go find my brothers. They'll be surprised to see me home alive. I'm sure everybody thought I was killed by those Nazi bastards."
I followed Marco down the cobblestones and up the street towards the procession. Many people along the street recognized him immediately, shaking his hand and slapping him on the back, welcoming him home to the village.
Some even passed us cold beers and shots of grappa. By the time we’d walked a couple of blocks, I was already half drunk.
"There they are!" Marco pointed to two young men, standing in the piazza. "My brothers, Primo and Severino."
Primo was a tall elegantly dressed young man. A white shirt tucked perfectly into his pressed pants, and his cap placed perfectly on his head.
Severino, on the other hand looked like he had just come from the fields. His well-worn overalls were stained with oil and his work boots covered in mud.
Before we could make our way through the crowd, the two brothers were standing beside us, giving Marco big hugs and shaking my hand vigorously.
"We thought you were dead Marco,” Primo exclaimed. “When the Canadians came through here a few months ago they told us they had found your captain in a shallow grave with a bullet in his head.”
"I wasn't the only lucky one." Marco put his arm around me. "Pietro here managed to get away from the Germans."
"Are you Italian?"
"No, Canadian," I replied. "Private Peter McMillian, Princess Patricia Light Infantry."
"Have you been home yet,” Severino asked. ”Mama's going to be so happy to see you. Pops has been depressed ever since we heard the news."
"Mama has been praying to the Virgin Mary every night and going to mass three times a day.” Primo adjusted the strap on his mandolin. “I think father D'Angello is ready to send a commendation into the Vatican for saint-hood."
"Shouldn't you be marching north with your division Private?" Severino offered us some cigarettes. “Or at least hanging out with them in Campobasso?”
"Marco wouldn’t let me go.” I took a cigarette and Severino produced some matches. “He wanted to bring me home and introduce me to some beautiful Italian women."
"Well you came to the right place," added Primo. "Too bad Carmella doesn't have a sister."
"Pietro is going to stay with us for awhile.” Marco puffed his cigarette contentedly. “Maybe you can set him up with one of the Gincola sisters. Is Marguerite still single?"
"She is, but ever since Arturo Rossi came back from the war, he's been eyeing her up. We all think he's going to ask her to marry him any day now."
"When he finds the guts to. That guy has no coglione." Severino took a long haul off of his cigarette and butted it out. "I think she'd be better off with a decent guy, like Primo here. Someone who could sing her love songs and bring her flowers."
"Does Carmella know you're back?" Primo changed the subject. "I bet she's really excited to see you after all this time."
"You two are the first ones we've talked to since we rolled in from Campobasso." Marco looked tired all of a sudden. "It's been a long journey, but it’s very nice to be home. I'm looking forward to a big bowl of mama's ravioli."
The procession was now making its way back down from the Cathedral, La Madonna safely deposited in the sacred chamber of the inner chapel.
Carmella spotted Primo and Severino talking to us in the piazza and made her way over, a big smile on her face.
"Dio mio!" She threw herself onto Marco and wrapped her hands around him. "I think I've just seen a ghost!"
"It’s really me." Marco kissed Carmella on both cheeks. "You look more beautiful than I ever imagined."
"And you’re as handsome as I remember! Who is your friend here?" Carmella offered her hand to me. "He looks like a stunned rabbit."
"Pietro is Canadese, he's a good man.” Marco introduced me to Carmella. “He's going to live with me for awhile until I find him a good Italian wife."
"Piacere." I took Carmella's hand and kissed it softly. "I’ve heard so much about you. It’s nice to finally meet you in person."
"Has Marco been bragging about me again?"
Carmella was even more beautiful up close. Her deep olive skin smelled faintly like sun soaked rose and fennel.
“We were all so happy to see the Canadian troops come into the village a few months ago."
"Especially after those rough German soldiers took all our food and executed poor Tonino Amoroso right here in the Piazza." Primo adjusted his hat. "They found him hiding in a barn and decided to make an example out of him. The commandant spat in his face just before shooting him in the head."
“Boom!” Severino pointed his finger to his forehead. “Just like that.”
"No need to worry. Now that you have two of the best soldiers back in the village,” Marco bragged confidently. “We'll protect you from the ghosts of all those dead German soldiers."
Marco took Carmella's hand.
"It is so nice to see you again. I dreamed of you every night."
"You're still such a charmer I see." Carmella pulled her hand away from Marco. "You should go home and see your mama. Ever since we heard the horrible news she's been tied to her rosary. She'll think her prayers have been answered."
"I know my prayer's have been answered." Marco tried to take Carmella's hand again, but she wouldn't let him. "C'mon, don't be shy. I won't bite."
"Come by the house tomorrow for coffee. I want to hear all about your journey." Carmella blew Marco a kiss as she walked away from the piazza and down the cobblestones. "And bring Pietro. Ciao ciao!"
Marco sat down on one of the chairs that had been lined up in the piazza for the festival. It was a hot day and the sun was still high in the sky. There was a slight breeze, but not enough to offer much relief.
"Maybe we should get some gelato." I was feeling hungry all of a sudden, a faint trace of Carmella's scent lingered in the air. "This sun is starting to get to me."
"Gelato?" Severino let out a big hearty laugh. "My friend, this isn't Rome. You'll be lucky to get coffee in the morning. The food rations are pretty strict around here still. But my ma always has some good prosciutto and fresh bread and olives back home."
"Lets go home," said Primo. "We want to hear all about your journey."
"Yea, I've still got a couple bottles of last year's montepulciano and a fresh pack of cigarettes," added Severino. "We want all the details."
Chapter Two
The Caproni Campini N.1
Marco Delgobo was working in the hanger on the new prototype Caproni Campini N.1 when the Nazi's captured him.
Early that month, after King Victor Emmanuel and Prime Minster Badoglio signed the Armistizio di Cassibile with the Allied Forces, the German forces began forcing the surrender of Italian troops on the mainland. Marco had been warned by his Captain to keep a loaded gun by his side, just in case he needed it.
"You never know Marco," Captain Marzzoni told him the morning the Germans killed him. "I have a bad feeling about this whole Armistizio. What are we supposed to do? Fight the Germans! Ma! Give me a break. We hardly have enough ammo to supply three men."
When the German soldiers arrived later that morning, they killed all of Marco's unit execution style.
First the skinny German sergeant made the men dig a shallow trench. When they were finished digging, they were lined up and shot by a firing squad. Their bullet ridden bodies falling neatly into the shallow graves they had just dug.
"Finish it off." The Sergeant threw a shovel at Marco. "Snell!"
Marco had been spared the firing squad because he was the only one who knew how to fix the new prototype Caproni Campini N.2 fighter jet. The new design perfected the afterburner technology and air-cooled engine that had been designed a decade earlier. It was still temperamental though and needed the skilled and patient touch of a mechanic who knew his way around the design.
The Nazi Sergeant was under strict orders to deliver the airplane and the mechanic to Milan for safe transport into Austria.
After he finished burying his friends, the German soldiers put Marco into shackles and threw him into the back of the covered transport vehicle.
It didn't take them long to trailer the plane and get their convoy back out onto the road. It was a small, fast moving convoy and Marco was impressed by their well-oiled efficiency. Compared to the Italian military, these guys weren't fooling around.
It's no wonder they've become such a menace. They're so disciplined and well equipped, Marco thought to himself. We don't have a chance in hell of beating these guys. If I'm lucky I'll be able to convince the commandant that this airplane is so temperamental that they're going to need me to keep it running.
After a couple of hours bouncing around in the back of the truck, Marco found the nerve to ask one the German soldiers where they were heading.
"Milan," replied the soldier. "We are under special orders from the Wafen-SS to deliver this plane to Austria. The Allied forces are reported to be moving north from Rome and up the Adriatic and the Schutzstaffel want this plane kept secret. You must be some kind of wunderkid to still be alive. We were under strict orders to shoot-to-kill."
"I guess I've been blessed by the Virgin Mary," said Marco. "My Ma has probably been praying to her again."
"Hopefully she'll protect us until we get to Milan," added another soldier. "This road is strewn with land mines."
The convoy continued to bounce down the rough road. Every five hours it would stop and the soldiers would pile out of the back of the transport to relieve themselves at the side of the road.
After the second stop, Marco noticed that it was getting lighter outside and every time they slowed down he could make out a bit of bird song.
If I ever get to make the trip to Campobasso again, it's going to feel pretty quick.
Marco had never been this far north before. The secret base where his unit was stationed north of Agnone in Castellana had been the farthest he'd ever been from Limosano.
At least I get to see some of Italy before I die. Even if it is from the back of a German transport.
After almost 20 hours of driving, the truck finally reached its destination. The soldiers were relieved to have arrived at the base safely after the long trip north. The drive had been uneventful, but there was always the chance that a convoy could be bombed, or hit land mines along the way. Ever since the armistice, former Italian soldiers had decided to conduct a guerilla war against the German forces. Mostly it was ineffectual, but the odd well-placed land mine or bullet occasionally found its mark.
The German forces were using the industrial infrastructure of Milan to help with their war effort. There were munitions factories, as well as a large airport base. Milan also provided an important and secure inland access point for the trains going north over the Alps into Germany or west into France.
Marco was quickly processed as a prisoner of war. The German soldiers were even efficient with their paper work.
"Make sure this one doesn't get lost in the ranks," ordered the commanding officer. "The Schutzstaffel will want to talk to him."
Marco was placed in a crowded cell along with other Italian soldiers. He was given a small ration of bread and water and a dirty wool blanket to keep him warm. There was a toilet in the corner of the cell that looked like it had never been cleaned.
"I hope you don't have to piss amico," said one of the soldiers in the cell. "You're bound to get some kind of disease by just getting too close to that thing."
"Don't worry, you get used to the smell after awhile," added another soldier. "It’s almost like perfume."
Marco chewed his bread slowly. The water was refreshing. He hadn't realized how thirsty he was until the soldier gave him the small metal cup of water.
"Enjoy the meal soldier. Once we get on the train tomorrow it’s lights out for all of us," said the soldier sitting in front of Marco. Marco noticed that he had the insignia of a Captain on his uniform. "They're shipping us to Dachau to be burned in the ovens with all the Jews they rounded up from Roma and Venezia."
"I hope you've said your prayers private," said the Sergeant Major sitting beside the Captain, "cause we're all heading to Dante's inferno."
Chapter Three
The Zampogna
"Our Village is such a mess. The fields are full of twisted metal and land mines.” Severino poured himself another glass of homemade wine. “There's hardly enough food to go around. The game warden's are out patrolling the woods. And the fish stocks are low in the Biferno. “
“We need to figure out someway to make it through the next couple of years,” Primo observed. “Or we’ll all end up having to move to the city, sweeping streets and washing dishes.”
" I don't think the cities are any better. In fact, they're probably worse," added Severino. "More people equals more squalor, more disease and more competition for already scarce resources."
"From what we've seen, Limosano is a paradise." Marco stretched back in his chair. I hadn't seen him this content since the big meal at Don Alexandro’s villa after our escape from the train station in Milan over a year ago. "Many parts of Rome were still smoldering when we left a few weeks ago. Sure the American soldiers were there with their supplies of food and cigarettes, but the skies were thick with smoke, the people were miserable, and the streets were filthy. At least here we have fresh air, fresh vegetables, and the most beautiful women in all of Italy. What more do we need to sustain us?"
"C'mon Marco, you can't live on beauty and fresh air alone," said Severino . "Ever since the war started, the fresh vegetables have been pretty scarce. Nobody seems to have the energy to farm the fields like we used to, and it’s dangerous. You could trigger a land mine and lose your leg, or worse, your life if you're not careful."
"There's gotta be some easier way to work those fields and make them more productive. People have been living a good life here for centuries. If we had a tractor, it sure would make things a lot easier. Tractors can pull plows, haul loads and livestock, and you can even hook up threshers and combines." Primo let out a big sigh. "But who can afford a tractor, let alone all those accessories? We can barely afford a pack of cigarettes."
"I bet we could find one really cheap. I've got a few contacts in Campobasso. " Severino placed his empty glass on the table and lit a cigarette. "We might have to fix it up though."
"Why don't we just build one?" I suggested. "It can't be that hard, can it?"
"Listen to this crazy Canadese, he thinks he can build anything." Severino gave me a hearty slap on the back. "What did they teach you in that army of yours anyways?"
"Pietro may be on to something." Even though Marco was a few years older then me, he didn't have to be the one who always came up with the plan of action. "He has lots of good ideas, a few of them actually saved our lives."
"If we can't afford a used tractor, how could we ever afford to build one? The parts alone would cost a fortune. It’s a ridiculous idea."
Primo was the most practical of the three brothers. This was a trait that I would come to appreciate more and more during that year in Limosano.
"But what if we got the parts for free?" I knew my plan would work. It was so easy, so perfect. “How could we lose then?”
"For free? Fuori di Testa?" Severino shook his head slowly. "Now I know you're crazy. That's impossible."
"No it’s not," I replied. "Think of all those bombed out military trucks and jeeps. There's a whole scrap yard right here just waiting to be used."
"It could work." Marco stood up from the table. "It’s a brilliant idea. Not only would we be creating a good job opportunity, we'd be doing the village a service by clearing all that twisted metal out of the fields. This war's gotta end sometime. Why not start the clean up now?"
"But we don't know anything about how to build a tractor. Let alone a combine." Primo still wasn't convinced that we could pull it off. "And the fields are full of mines. We'll all end up handicap and in wheelchairs if we try to collect all that scrap."
"Marco is probably Italy's best mechanic. He could build anything from scrap,” I added. "And besides what do we have to lose? Like Marco said, it’s a win-win situation. We keep ourselves busy, and we do the village a good service at the same time. And who knows, maybe we'll get rich renting out the tractor to everyone who has a farm plot here in the village."
"And Pietro, besides being a brilliant business man, is the world's best mine clearing specialist!" Marco made his way towards the stairs leading to the ground floor of the Delgobo's house. "I'll start drawing up the blueprints tomorrow. Now who wants to come on the rounds with me?"
The Delgobo family was responsible for maintaining the main power generator that supplied all the hydro electricity to Limosano and the neighboring villages of St. Angelo and Montagano.
When the Italian government decided to harness the energy of the Biferno River, they built a small generating station in Limosano. The station was perched on the hillside just on the outskirts of Limosano. For the small, still very medieval, village the electricity meant that candles could now be saved for emergencies, or a romantic evening between lovers.
Every night, at around ten o'clock, one of the Delgobo brothers would do the rounds of the village. First they would check to see that all the lights were working. And then they would go to the main generating station to shut the power off. The next day, one of the brothers would turn the power back on in the early evening.
One night in Baldazzi’s hide-out in Trastevere Marco told me that, before he was stationed at the secret airforce base, he really enjoyed doing these rounds. Some nights, as he walked the narrow cobblestone streets, he thought he could hear the lonely drone of the zampogna, or the faint rhythmic pulse of the putipù off in the distance.
His favorite rounds, by far, were the nights when he would meet Carmella secretly outside the village on the road leading to St. Angelo. They would hold hands, and kiss until Marco would try to take things too far and Carmella would sneak into the night and make her way back home.
"I'll come with you tonight Marco." I followed him to the door. "Unless you've got special plans. I wouldn't want to get in the way."
"I wish that were true my friend. Unfortunately, it’s not. But you never know what we may see or hear out on the streets tonight."
I followed Marco out onto the cobblestones, secretly wishing that we would bump into Carmella on our rounds. Little did I realize that, soon enough, Carmella and I would be having our own secret rendezvous when the lights in Limosano were turned off.
Chapter Four
Christmas in Ortona
My first taste of Italy was just after dawn on July 10, 1943 as we stormed the sun baked beaches of southern Sicily.
As soon as our unit heard that we were being deployed, there had been a lot of speculation as to our specific destination. Most of the guys thought we were being shipped out to Norway to battle the Germans on the northern front. A few were convinced that we were being posted to Burma, to assist on the Asian front. I hoped that we were going North, dreading the idea of being stuck in the suffocating heat of the jungle, and dying from some strange disease. Ultimately, no one really knew we were going to Sicily. The top brass kept the flow of information to rank and file soldiers like myself on a need to know basis only. The only thing that seemed certain was that Operation Husky was not just another exercise.
The first part of the trip through the Mediterranean was as perfect as it could have been. The sea was like glass, and not a single enemy plane was spotted. It was too perfect. A lot of the guys were on edge, thinking that this was the calm before the storm.
While a lot of the soldiers were writing long letters to their sweethearts back home, I had no one to write to. I spent most of my time on the boat and cleaning weapons, and counting ammunition. The closer we got to Sicily, the more contemplative every one seemed to get, and the more discussions about mortality and the meaning of life seemed to circulate around the ship. A lot of the guys started hanging out more and more in the ship’s chapel, making peace with God. Maybe they were asking for some kind of advance solvency for the sins we were all going to commit in the upcoming months. It was clear that anything could happen once we headed out onto the battlefield.
The day before we landed, the sea began to get rough. We joined the American and British convoys that appeared off the coast of Malta. I remember standing on deck that night and being awed by the sheer number of ships stretching out as far as I could see in two directions.
The landing in Sicily itself was anti-climatic. After months and months of training, we were prepared for a fierce battle. So we were a little shocked that, instead of fighting, the Italian soldiers surrendered without a shot fired.
In just over a month, we marched two hundred kilometers across the island, fighting fleas and mosquitoes, which seemed more numerous than the German and Italian soldiers combined. Thirst and dehydration were our biggest enemies that first month. It was hot. The further we marched into the mountains, the harder it was to find clean water.
During the second month we saw some heavy action, and lost over five hundred brave soldiers. But we were surprised at how swift, efficient and successful our attacks were. In the end Operation Husky freed the Mediterranean Sea lanes and secured the necessary air base from which we could now support the liberation of mainland Italy. The quick efficiency of the operation, however, didn’t fully prepare us for the long arduous marches and fierce battles that awaited us on the boot.
Just before deploying to the mainland, we spent a few glorious weeks on the beaches of Lentini Lake, drinking freshly made limonada and flirting with the spicy Sicilian women.
The first two months after we left Sicily were tough. We spent long days advancing inland and north, from Foggia into the rugged Apennine Mountains. A lot of time and energy was spent reconstructing demolished bridges and engaging in small skirmishes with the German rear guards.
After the battle at Motta, we secured the city of Campobasso, and the next day drove the German forces out of Vinchiaturo, advancing across the Biferno River and further up into the mountains towards Ortona.
I was part of the advance reconnaissance team of combat engineers sent out to clear the roads of mines, reconstruct bridges and gather intelligence on the German positions. The Germans maintained a strong and well-defended presence in the small medieval mountain villages of central Italy.
Little did I realize at that time, almost one year later I would be retracing my steps back to this remote part of Italy; not to fight German soldiers, but to win the heart of Carmella, the most beautiful woman in all of Italy.
As the first snow of winter began to fall, our efforts to drive the German forces north to secure the eastern front of the Gustave line became increasingly difficult. The deep and steep river valleys of the Abruzzi region proved to be treacherous. As our units advanced, the German forces maintained the high ground. Many of our men were killed as we advanced our line across the Moro River, edging forward to Ortona on the coast.
The medieval town of Ortona, with its castle and stone buildings, was situated on a ledge over looking the Adriatic. I still can’t figure out why the Germans were so keen on defending this city. It had no specific strategic value at all. Its steep, rubble-filled streets limited the use of tanks and artillery, forcing us to utilize street fighting techniques.
That week in Ortona forced us to dig deeper than we ever had to at that point in the war. I was put in charge of camouflage and making sure our unit had an adequate, and safe, supply of satchel charges for “mouseholing.” We learned quickly after losing dozens of men to the deadly rapid-fire German MG-42 machine gun that smashing our way through walls and buildings was the only effective means of cover. By blowing small holes in buildings, we were able to tunnel our way through the city to eliminate the German sniper posts.
Mouseholing, however, was slow and dangerous work; you never knew what to expect as you made your way through the maze of buildings, clearing every room top to bottom. Every corner was a surprise.
The Germans captured me on Christmas Eve 1943. I’m still surprised that they didn’t kill me. We were making our way to the Church of Santa Maria di Constantinopoli. The good boys of the Seaforth Highlanders managed to scrounge up the essentials to put on a full Christmas Eve feast; table cloths and chinaware, beer and wine; roast pork and applesauce; cauliflower, mashed potatoes and gravy; chocolate, oranges, nuts; and even cigarettes.
Considering we’d lost more men in the last five days than over the last few months, the prospects of having a bit of good food and some time to relax did wonders for our moral. Over the course of the few days in Ortona, I developed a very detailed map system of our mouseholes, showing the linking tunnels and referencing the hotspots and danger zones. The map gave us the ability to maneuver quickly through the friendly parts of the city, and know which zones still needed to be cleared of German snipers.
That night I had a bad feeling. My Sergeant was too keen on finding the most direct route to the church so we could get there before all the Christmas goodies were gone. On one of the first days in Ortona, the Lieutenant divided our unit into small sections of five men to make the process of mouseholing more efficient. His theory was that we could cover more ground in small units. It was also a lot easier to maneuver through the tight, cramped spaces with fewer men.
“Hey McMillian, find the quickest route to Santa Maria. We need to get there before those Highlanders eat all the roast pork.” Sergeant Galt was a big man, someone who was just as comfortable driving a tank as he was driving a tractor through the Manitoba wheat fields.
“Sarg, I think the best route is to back track through these points, and circle around to the church from the east.” I laid the map down on the cobblestone, and traced out the route. “It’s the safest and most efficient.”
“That’ll take too long.” Galt studied the map. “Why don’t we take the direct route through the middle of town.” He pointed to an empty spot on the map. “That way we’ll make sure we get at least a couple of glasses of wine with our diner.”
“But Sarg, that’s a hot zone,” I protested. “We’d be much better off circling back through our mouseholes and approaching the church from the east. It’s a lot safer.”
“Nonsense.” The Sergeant checked his rifle and slung it back on his shoulder. “We’re going to earn this meal Private. Now let’s move.”
I rolled the map back into its case and tucked it into my kit. As we made our way slowly towards the church, blasting holes through the buildings, I took mental notes so I could update the map later that evening.
The closer we got to the centre of town, the more intense the fighting became.
“Steady as she goes boys.” The Sergeant was always good at maintaining a strong positive attitude. “We’re almost there. I can smell the roast pork and oranges.”
“You sure that’s not roast German yer smellin’ sarg?” Private Patrick O’Callahan was the first one to die that night. He was the unit’s comedian and always seemed to find the humour in the deep, dark nightmare of Ortona. “I bet there’s a lot of them roasting out there tonight. Especially after last night’s bombing.”
“Watch the line O’Callahan.” But it was too late.
A round from an MG-42 pierced through O’Callahan’s neck and his blood spurted everywhere. There was no way to save him.
“Move! Move!” The Sergeant was quick to respond. “I don’t want to lose any more of you boys tonight.”
We left O’Callahan’s body and followed the Sergeant to a pile of rubble down the street, but we weren’t fast enough. Private Albert Barber stepped on a land mine and pieces of his body scattered in all direction.
Private Peter Donolly was the third man from my unit to die that Christmas Eve. He caught a bullet from a German sniper right between the eyes.
“McMillian, get us out of here,” yelled the Sergeant. “We need an escape route now!”
I dug into my bag and produced a couple of satchel charges. A few seconds later, there was a hole as big as a door in the building behind us.
Private Stow and I followed Sergeant Galt through the mouse hole right into the barrels of three FG-42s. Galt was instantly shot by one of the German paratroopers. Stow and I dropped our weapons and raised our hands.
“Come on, it’s Christmas, you’re not going to shoot us are you?”
Stow was the smoothest talker I’d ever met. A lot of the men in our platoon joked that he had horseshoes up is ass because he survived so many close calls in combat since we arrived in Italy.
“Here, I got a present for you. You like chocolate?”
As Stow reached inside of his coat, a bullet went clean through his skull and into the plaster in the wall behind him.
“No funny business.” The Paratrooper who killed Stow pointed his FG-42 at me as his two comrades searched Galt and Stow. One of the paratroopers laughed as he pulled a half-eaten chocolate bar out of Stow’s hand.
“Now it’s your turn.” The Paratrooper shouldered his machine gun and unholstered his Browning pistol, pointing it to my head.
“Wait, what’s that.” One of the paratroopers took the map case out of my bag and unrolled the map.
“This one may be of value to us. Looks like he’s been mapping the tunnel system these rats have been making.”
“Let’s kill him and bring the map back to the Commandant. I don’t feel like baby siting tonight. It’s Christmas eve.”
“This map is useless to us without an explanation.” The Paratrooper who was obviously the leader holstered his pistol. “Once we’ve gotten him to explain this map, then we kill him.”
Chapter Five
Il Trattore
We started collecting scrap metal and parts from the fields in the fall before the snow arrived. It was hard work, cutting and hauling all that scrap metal, and making sure we didn’t inadvertently step on a German land mine and blow ourselves up. By the time we finished pressing that year’s crop of grapes into wine, the snow began to fall. Luckily we had collected enough scrap to begin constructing the tractor.
Many days as Primo, Severino and I worked in the shop, teasing the twisted metal back into shape, Marco was nowhere to be found. He was increasingly preoccupied with Carmella, so we just figured that they were hanging out, getting to known each other again. Of course, I was secretly jealous. I wanted to be hanging out with Carmella, and getting to know her, not cutting scrap metal for the tractor.
“Come on," Marco took Carmella’s hand from across the small little table in the cafe where they were drinking coffee. “I've waited so long. I don't think I can't wait any longer. All I can think about is the smell of your soft skin, the press of your lips on mine. It's driving me crazy.”
“I’m not ready Marco.” Carmella drew her hand away. “You’ve been away for a long time. I don’t really know you anymore.”
“C’ho il dente avvelenato. ” Marco took Carmella’s hand again. “I’m the same man, the same Marco who loves you so much it hurts.”
“But you’re not.” Carmella squeezed Marco’s hand. “It just doesn’t feel the same Marco. You’ve changed. You’ve seen so much, been all across Italy. I need time. I want to go slow, to hear about your adventures. To build that fire we used to have together.”
“Oh ma! Is it something I did? I thought we both agreed that we’d get married as soon as I got back from the war.”
“We did.”
“Than what’s the problem?”
“There’s no problem.” Carmella sighed. A deep heavy sigh. The kind of sigh every man knows means trouble.. “It’s just that I don’t want us to rush into anything.”
“I’d rush into a burning house after you! I’d rush into a field full of land mines after you! All I could think of the last year when I was away was making love to you on our wedding night. Let’s get Father D’Angello to marry us this weekend!”
“Ah Marco. You’re so sweet. But my wedding is going to be planned. We’re going to have a huge feast, with music and flowers, and dancing. And my dress is going to be the most beautiful dress this small village has ever seen.”
“Can we at least agree on a date?” Marco ran his hands through his hair, frustrated. “Give me that or kill me now.”
“Va Bene. Don’t be so dramatic. First you’ve got to fatten up a bit. You’re so skinny! How can a man this skinny ever think he’ll be able to look after me?”
“Another week of mama’s pasta and I’ll be fatter than a pig. How about the spring, just after Easter? That should give us plenty of time to make all the arrangements.”
“Ok. But I want to be in charge.”
“Agreed.”
“I’ll start after Christmas.”
“After Christmas?” Marco’s voice carried through the small cafe, turning heads. “There’s so much to do. You won’t be able to get it all done in time for spring if you don’t start today! You could start planning the menu and sourcing out the material for your dress. You could even talk to Father D’Angello. I’m sure he’s going to have many questions for us about our vows and the sacred union of marriage and all that religious stuff.”
“Piano, piano Marco. There’s plenty of time. I don’t want to rush into this. I need time to think about things. To talk to my mother. To make sure we do this right. Remember I’m in charge. That means you’re going to have to trust me and let me do it my way.”
“You’ll at least let me know what’s happening, and give me some tasks to help out, I hope.”
“Certomente. Your first task is to help your brothers build that tractor. What a crazy idea.”
“It was Pietro’s idea. That man is brilliant! I thank God every day that our path’s crossed in Milano. I don’t know what I would have done without him. Maybe I would’ve never made it back alive.”
“He seems like a very good friend.”
“We need to find him a good woman so that he doesn’t get the crazy idea to go back to Canada, at least not until the tractor is built.”
“I’m sure we can find him a nice woman. I have some friends in St. Angelo that we could set him up with.”
“Maria Da’Luca?”
“No she married Tony Moccia last year. I was thinking about Stella Sciatta or maybe even Lena Di’Carlo.”
“Lena Di’Carlo? Mama mia! You’ve got to be kidding. She’s too feisty for Pietro. I like Stella. She’d make a good wife. Beautiful, but not too beautiful. A hard worker. Good hips for child-bearing and an excellent cook!”
“Maybe you should ask her to marry you.” Carmella teased. “Sounds like a match made in heaven.”
“There’s only one woman in this whole world for me and I’m looking at her beautiful face right now. I can’t imagine spending the rest of my life with anybody else.”
“That’s reassuring.” Carmella patted Marco on the knee underneath the table. “So, tell me about this tractor? I think you guys are crazy. It’s never going to work.”
“We’ve got all the scrap metal and are going to start building it as soon as possible. We just need a good engine and some wheels.”
“You’re lucky. Just last month old man Dominic lost his leg and his left ear when he stepped on a mine out in the fields. He’s lucky to be alive. Although, I think in many ways he’d be better off dead.”
“We’re aware of the danger. But remember, Peitro and I both have military training. We know what we’re doing.”
“Well I don’t want to marry a cripple. Be careful.”
“Always. Now I better get back to the shop. There is so much to do.” Marco leaned across the table and kissed Carmella on the lips. “Ciao mi amore.”
“Ciao ciao. A presto. When are you going to come by and say hi to mama?”
“Soon. Maybe I’ll bring Pietro by for lunch tomorrow?”
“Bene. I’ll let her know.”
Chapter Six
The Resistenza
After shooting Stow at point blank range, I was certain that those paratroopers were going to kill me that Christmas eve in Ortono.
They were like machines. No feelings. No sense of humanity behind the gun.
Maybe their idea of humane was just very different than mine. I’m not sure what came over them that night. Maybe it was the spirit of Christmas. Maybe they felt like giving me a gift. It would’ve been much easier to put a bullet through my head. Luckily for me, they didn’t. Little did I realize was that one year later I’d put myself into an even more dangerous situation over the love of a woman. At that time, however, I didn’t think there was anything more lethal than a Wafen-SS paratrooper.
An elite unit of the Wafen-SS paratroopers had been dropped into Ortona to assist the German Fallschirmjager units, or “Green Devils,” hold the front. It was a fierce combination that almost cost us the Italian front.
“Tell us what you know of our positions? What are your soldiers planning to do?” The SS-Storm Leader paced back and forth behind me. “Don’t make this difficult. My men enjoy extracting information. They’d like to watch you breakdown like a little baby.”
“I’m just a private.” I answered calmly. “They don’t tell me anything.”
“What is this map?” The Storm-Leader was now standing in front of me, wringing his leather gloved-hands together. “Who made this map?”
“I’m not sure what map you’re talking about.”
“This map.”
The Storm leader grabbed my head and shoved the map into my face.
“Don’t play games with me. My men tell me you were carrying it and it shows all of our positions.”
“I was under orders to carry that map,” I lied. “I don’t know anything about it.”
“Well you better start remembering.”
The Storm-Leader motioned to a man standing in the corner. He wore the distinctive Fallschirmjager uniform of green-stripped camouflage.
“String him up.”
The green devil took a meat hook hanging from the ceiling and clasped it onto the leather straps that bound my hands behind my back. Grabbing the other end of the chain he began to hoist me up, slowly, with the help of an intricate pulley system. At first I enjoyed the bit of a stretch. After ten minutes, the searing pain in my body felt like my shoulders were ripping apart.
“Tell us what you know about the map.” My torturer stood in front of me with a large club wrapped in barbed wire. “What do you know about our positions.”
“I don’t know anything. I’m just a private.” In basic training they taught us to hold out as long as we could in the event of being captured and questioned by the enemy. “My name is Private Peter McMillian. Princess Patricia’s Light Infantry.”
My torturer hoisted me up higher. The pain was now so intense I felt like I was going to pass out.
“The map,” he pressed. “What do you know.”
These were the last words I remember before passing out and waking up to a Nazi doctor poking me with medical equipment.
“He’s fine.” The doctor assured the soldier standing in front of me. “A little shocked but otherwise healthy and strong.”
After the brief medical exam, I was given a number and locked into a stinking cell crowded with Italian soldiers. Luckily I picked up some basic Italian on my tour through Sicily and up the Adriatic coast to Ortona.
“Mamma Mia! A Canadese?” The older Italian soldier looked tired and beat down, like a dog scolded by its master. “I’m surprised the Germans didn’t eat you for breakfast ragazzo.”
“Non te la prendere private. The Captain here is not feeling so good. He’s hungry and misses his wife,” said the soldier sitting next to the Captain. “We’re all heading into the fires of hell anyways, so what does it matter. Che Macello!”
“Don’t listen to either of these two, they’ve given up hope.” A third soldier extended his hand to me. “I’m Marco.”
“Piacere. Peter McMillian, Princess Patricia Light Infantry.”
I never could’ve realized that shaking Marco’s hand was going to transform my life forever. It’s funny how life works like that - you really never know what’s around the corner. It could be a boat waiting to ferry you across to the isle of the dead, or love waiting to pounce on you like a hungry tiger.
“I’ve been praying to La Madonna for a miracle and she’s sent you!” Marco was very animated. “I’ve heard stories about how you Canadese are always outsmarting those Germans. So what’s your plan? How are you going to get us out of here?”
“Uffa! Marco can’t you just accept the reality,” snapped the Captain. “We’re being shipped out to the Offlag and Stalag camps. Thanks to that bloody Badoglio and his stupid armistizio we’ll probably end up in the ovens of Dachau with the Jews and the Zingari.”
“What’s this Stalag,” I asked. “I’ve never heard of it.”
“It’s a central processing station for prisoners of war like you and Marco. Commissioned-officers like the Captain and I get the four star treatment at the Offlag,” the soldier explained. “The German’s like to maintain their hierarchies, even if we all end up in the same crematorium. It’s all about appearances.”
Before the Italian soldier could finish, a stiff, impeccably dressed German soldier appeared outside of the cell with a large dog on a short leash.
“I want two lines. One for officers and one for the rest of you.” The soldier’s perfect Italian was punctuated by his thick German accent. “Anyone who steps out of line will be shot.”
“Stay close amico,” Marco whispered in my ear. “You’re my lucky charm.”
The door to the cell opened and our two lines were marched out of the building in different directions. Marco and I ended up in a courtyard where other soldiers like us were being organized in a similar fashion.
Eventually all the lines were merged together and, under close scrutiny by the German soldiers and their dogs, we began our march through the centre of old Milan to the train station.
The magnificent Milano Centrale was originally built in 1864. In the 1940s Mussolini decided it was the perfect site to represent his vision of fascist Italy as an economic powerhouse with the best transportation system in all of Europe. He invested an enormous sum of money into modernizing and expanding the station to accommodate
That foggy winter morning, as we made our way though the narrow cobble-stoned avenues of central Milan, we never would’ve believed that just over one year later, thousands of people would be crowding those same streets to get the chance to throw stones at Mussolini’s corpse, as it hung securely from a meat hook for all to see.
“Too bad we can’t go and see Leonardo’s famous Cenacolo. I don’t think I’ll ever get a chance to get back to Milano.” Marco was still behind me. “I’ve always wanted to see it.”
There was a gun shot behind us, followed by two more. Instinctually, I dropped to the ground and covered my head with my hands. The German soldiers started yelling at us to move.
“It’s the Resistenza! Che Bella! This is our chance Pietro.” Marco tugged on my elbow. “We’ve got to go now before we’re shot.”
“I’m not moving. It’s too dangerous.” In reality, I was too tired to fight anymore. I was hungry, sore and sick of the war. “Let’s just stay here and wait until it’s safe.”
“Mi raccomando!” pleaded Marco. “You’re a blessing from La Madonna and I promised to protect you and get you home if she sent me an opportunity like this!” Marco slipped his hand under my arm. “And I can promise you the most beautiful women in the world live in Limosano! On three. Uno...due...”
Chapter Seven
Nicolitto’s
Christmas preparations in Limosano were well underway.
Families were gathering all the ingredients they needed to prepare the Menu di Natale, which included the thirteen fish dishes, baked pasta and a variety of special cookies and cakes. This was a longstanding tradition in the Village, with recipes that dated back to medieval times.
Marco’s mama was busy preparing the baccalà, changing the water every six hours until the salt-cod reached the desired consistency. While the baccalà soaked, she worked tirelessly baking cookies and cakes of all different shapes and sizes.
That morning, three days before Christmas Eve, she was preparing the traditional Panettone to give out as gifts to friends and family.
Legend has it that a nobleman known as Ughetto Atellani invented the Christmas cake to win the heart of the beautiful Adalgisa, the daughter of a poor baker named Antonio. The story goes that, disguised as a baker, Ughetto invented a delicate golden bread to impress the young Adalgisa’s father who was reluctant to see his only daughter married. By combining flour and yeast, butter, eggs, dried raisins, candied lemon and orange peel, Ugghetto made such a delicious bread that it impressed the Duke of Milan, Ludovico il Moro Sforza, who agreed to sponsor the marriage. The bread also became one of the favorite snacks of Leonardo da Vinci, who painted a portrait of the happily married couple as a wedding gift. To honour Adalgisa’s father, Ughetto named the bread Pan de Toni.
“Buon Giorno Pietro. I hope you slept well.” Mama Delgobo always had coffee and biscotti ready for me when I woke up, which seemed to be getting later and later every day. “You and Marco must be tired after all your adventures. I’m so happy to have my boy home alive. You know every night he was gone, I prayed to La Madonna to return him safe to me. When I saw him there in my kitchen, I knew that my prayers had been answered.”
“Where is everybody?” I changed the topic of conversation. When Marco’s mama got too emotional, it made me feel a little bit uncomfortable. “Every morning get up and nobody is here.”
“They went out to the fields to look for an engine to put in that crazy scrap metal tractor of yours.”
“How come nobody woke me up?”
“You need your sleep to get your strength back. Non preocupada. Why do you want to still risk the chance of blowing your legs off? You should be spending more time looking for a nice girl to marry and settle down with.”
“Like Marco and Carmella?”
“Exactamente.” Mama Delgobo placed a small bottle of liquor down on the table. “Uffah! That Severino has been drinking my Amaretto again. I told him I needed it for the pannetone!”
She dug her hands into her apron, pulled out a few coins and passed them to me along with the empty liquor bottle.
“Go buy me a few ounces of Amaretto from Nicolitto’s and be quick about it. These cakes need to be baked today.”
The snow had been falling for a few days that made it difficult to walk up the steep cobblestone streets without slipping.
Niccolito’s was Limosano’s only alimentari. It was a small shop nestled next to the even smaller Cafe Romma in the piazza in the middle of the village.
The store had everything you needed. The big bags of semolina flour for making bread and pasta were stacked to the ceiling next to the equally big bags of cece and fagoli. Capocolli sausage made from the head and tail of a pig and Salsiccie al finocchio, Niccolitto’s speciality, were made fresh daily and hung in the window to cure. The delicate Prosciutto affumicato and the spicy Soppressata hung next to the Scamorza and Caciocavallo cheese from the ceiling, curing in store’s warm atmosphere. The Burrino and Manteca, the soft, delicious, buttery cow’s-milk cheeses were kept fresh along with the Pecorino, which you could order young and soft or aged and hard. Jugs of locally pressed olive oil were stored next to the jars of herbs and spices and if you didn’t get a chance to make your own, Nicololitto made an excellent salsa pomadoro and an even better vino tinto. In the summer, whatever grew in Limosano, you could find at Nicolitto’s.
In the spirit of Christmas, Nicolitto, a wiry, clean shaven, man who smoked like a chimney and always seemed to have a smile on his face, stacked bars of soft Torrone from Campobasso on the front counter. For the first time, he also brought in a new hard pistachio toronne made in Rome, which was twice the price as the locally made sweet. He placed these candies strategically next to the few boxes of commercially made pannetone that he brought in for those rich enough to afford it.
“I’d like a few ounces of Amaretto.” I placed the empty bottle on the counter. “And a pack of cigarettes.”
“You’re that Canadese who came in with the Delgobo boy on the feast of La Madonna, a very auspicious day.” Nicolitto took a deep drag of his cigarette. “Is it true you escaped the Germans and walked all the way from Milano?”
“Half-true.” I smiled. “We didn’t walk here. That would’ve taken a lot longer.”
“Veramente. That’s one hell of a walk. La Madonna she smiles on you. It’s not surprising, really, Maria Delgobo she’s in the church three times a day, every day, praying for her Marco to come home. Me, I figured he was dead, like the rest of his outfit. They say he was some hotshot mechanic working on a secret jet that could fly to the moon. I don’t believe all that crap. He was probably working on trucks and motorcycles, nothing new to that Delgobo family. But one of these days they’re going to get fried playing with that electricity. Don’t get me wrong I like the light, especially this time of year, but I don’t trust it. It’s free now. But you just wait, soon we’re gonna have to pay for it, and it’s gonna cost more that the most expensive Prosciutto affumicato.”
Nicolitto took a large bottle of Ameretto of the shelf behind him and filled my bottle with a small amount of the thick amber liqueur.
”Eco lei.” He handed the bottle back to me with a pack of cigarettes. “Maria Delgobo is making her famous pannetone? It’s the best in Limosano. I wish she’d reconsider my offer to go into business. I could make her a very rich woman!”
“Her cooking is going to make me a very fat man!” I handed him a few coins. “But it sure is better than the rations we had in Rome.”
“Varamente! You could benefit from putting on a few pounds. Is it true that you and the Delgobo boys are building a tractor?” Nicolitto handed my change back to me. “From the scrap metal in the fields?”
“We’re going to try.”
“You’re going to try to kill yourselves is what you’re doing.”
“Veramente Nicolitto.” Carmella walked into the store, with her smell of roses and sunshine. “This Canadese is trying to kill my Marco.”
“Ah, Bella, comme va!” Nicolitto stubbed out his cigarette, a large smile on his face. “This Canadese sure is crazy to step in between a man and his lover!”
“Ciao Pietro.” Carmella kissed me on both cheeks. “Helping Mama Delgobo with her baking?” She motioned to the bottle of Ameretto. “Or drinking with Severino again?”
“Neither. I’m just the errand boy.” I could still feel the trace of Carmella’s warm, moist lips on my cheeks, like a sunbeam on the coldest winter day. “We’ve got to stay focused if we’re going to get that tractor built and keep all our limbs in working order.”
“I hope that one of those cakes is for me.” Carmella took a jar of oil from the shelf. “Marco’s mama makes the best Pannetone this side of Napoli.”
“I guess that all depends on how good you’ve been to your man.” Nicolitto winked at Carmella. “When is the wedding going to be?”
“In the spring, at Easter.” Carmella handed Nicolitto a few coins. “If all goes according to plans.”
“Va bene. Well make sure you let me know how I can help. Tell your mama to get her order in soon. This reconstruction effort is limiting the supply of a lot of things so I’m going to have to pull a few strings, but you can always rely on me.“
“I’ll let you know soon Nicolitto.” Carmella took her bottle of olive oil and put the change from Nicolitto in her pocket. “Buon Natale.”
I followed Carmella out of the store and into the piazza. A wind was starting to blow more snow in from the mountains and I could feel the damp cold seeping its way in through my thick wool coat.
“You want to come over for some food?” Carmella stood close to me, clutching her bottle of olive oil close to her chest. “Mama is making a frittata for lunch.”
“I’d love to, but I’ve got to get this amaretto back to Mama Delgobo. She was very adamant that I return home as soon as possible so she can get her baking done.” I inched closer to Carmella, hoping to catch a faint scent of her sweetness. “I could walk you home though.”
Anything to prolong this moment, I thought to myself.
“Such a gentleman.” She linked her arm in mine. “I’m so glad Marco finally has a good friend. He speaks very highly of you.”
“He is a fine man and he loves you very much.”
We walked to the other side of the piazza and started making our way down the narrow, snowy cobblestone street.
“Every night Marco would say a prayer which included a line like, ‘and when I get home, I pray that Carmella still loves me as much as I love her.’” I tried my best to imitate Marco’s animated, dramatic voice. “Some nights I’d hear him speaking your name in his sleep.”
“Marco is a kind man.” Carmella sighed heavily. “Can I tell you something Pietro? Something private? Can you keep a secret?”
“Of course.” I felt my heart starting to beat faster, worried that Carmella would hear it. “You can trust me.”
“I don’t know if I’m ready to marry Marco.”
“What?” My heart felt like it was going to explode through my chest. “Marco will be devastated if he finds out.”
Secretly I hoped she was right. There was now a chance, a small hope, that I could still win the heart of the most beautiful woman in the world. But I was sad. I knew how much Marco loved Carmella. This would break his heart.
“You’re just getting scared is all. It’s understandable.” I rationalized. “Marriage is a big commitment, there’s no turning back. You want to make sure it’s the right person.”
“That’s the thing. He’s changed. Or maybe I’ve changed.” Carmella divulged. “Oh ma, I don’t know anymore. I’m just confused. My heart tells me one thing and my head tells me something totally different.”
“What’s the rush? Why can’t you just take some time and get to know each other again?”
“That’s exactly what I said to Marco!” Carmella stopped on the street. “I feel like he’s rushing me, like he’s not listening to me and what I want.”
“Tell him that.” We started walking again. “Tell him exactly what you just said to me. If he loves you as much as he says he does then he’ll listen. He has no choice but to listen.”
“But he never listens! That’s the problem.” Carmella exclaimed. “He’s worse now. It drives me crazy. All he wants to do is get into my pants, and I used to want to get into his pants too. But I don’t feel that same way anymore. I want to be with someone who listens to me, who I can tell my secrets too. Who can talk to me. Like we’re doing right now.”
“Give him some time.” I urged her. “It was a long road back to Limosano.”
“Maybe you’re right. Grazie Pietro.” We stopped in front of Carmella’s home. “I like talking with you. Maybe you can tell Marco to try to take things a bit slower with me?”
“I’ll try.” I gave her a big hug. “Are we going to see you tomorrow evening?”
“Certomente! I wouldn’t be without my favorite men on Christmas Eve.”
I watched Carmella disappear into the warm glow of her house, thinking, dreaming, and wishing that one day, we would walk, hand in hand, into that house together.
Chapter Eight
Don Alexandro
It was two Italian resistance fighters, Fabio and Francesco, that saved our lives in Milan that morning. After a brief gun fight with the German soldiers, they spirited us away down through the darkened alleys of the city to a safe house.
Guns and ammo were pilled up in the various corners of the small apartment, and in the middle was a table stacked with the curled ends of maps.
“You have to leave here fast. You’re not safe.”Francesco rolled open a map of Italy onto the table. “It’s better not to go through Bologna; Too many German soldiers. Go down the coast-side to Tuscany. The resistance has a small farm on the outskirts of Florence. You can stay there for a few days and figure out where you’re going to go.”
He rolled the map back up and handed it to his partner.
“You two are lucky to be alive. Now go with Fabio - he’ll give you some new clothes and drive you to the outskirts of town before those Nazi pigs come looking for you.”
After changing into new our clothes we followed Fabio out to a beat-up old truck with a large tarp in the back.
“Get in the back and be invisible,” suggested Fabio. “Just in case we run into a German patrol. It’s not far to the outskirts of town where we’ll be safe”
Marco and I got into the back of the truck and pulled the large tarp over top of us. After what seemed like no time, the truck stopped and we heard Fabio open his door and come around back.
“Ok. This is as far as I go.” He motioned us out of the truck. “Francesco is having somebody come to pick you up to drive you to Don Alexandro’s.”
After Fabio dropped us off, we waited anxiously on the outskirts of Milan for another truck to pick us up and drive us down to the coast to Genova, where we got in another truck that drove us down the coast to Viareggio.
It was a long, cold journey in the back of those trucks. But we didn’t notice it. We were just happy to be alive.
When we got to Viareggio, the entire outskirts of the city were in rubbles. We hid amongst the snow-covered rubble, waiting for the next truck to come and pick us up and bring us to the farm out the outskirts of Florence.
To our surprise, it wasn’t a truck that picked us up, but a small car, and an equally small man behind the wheel.
“Quick. Get in. I’m Carlino, your new driver.” The car stopped quickly in front of us. In the dark it was hard to see much of anything “We’re too exposed here. Those Nazi bastards could be anywhere waiting to blow us up with a mortar.”
Without even questioning the driver, Marco and I piled into the small car, which raced off as quickly as it stopped. After a half an hour, I could feel the car working hard as we made our way from the coast up into the Tuscan highlands. A few hours later, the sun started to peak over the horizon, unveiling the majestic beauty of a rolling landscape gently embraced by the soft snow.
“I’ll never get used to the beauty of this country.“ I murmured from the back seat of Carlino’s fiat. “It’s so stunning,”
The new morning mist was rising from the acres of sleepy vineyards.
“Too bad our cities are being reduced to bombed out rubble,” Marco piped up. “I can’t believe Viareggio. What a mess.”
“We’ll just rebuild. The Italians have been doing it for thousands of years,” added Carlino, our driver. “At least we’ll have jobs after this war is over reconstructing the mess.”
“If it ever is over.” Marco replied sleepily. “I’ve seen how efficient and heartless those Nazi’s are.”
“Ever day we’re pushing them further and further north.” Carlino sped the car up, as if to emphasize his point. “You just wait, soon we’ll parade Mussolini’s head around Milan and run those Nazi’s back to Germany, where they belong, with their tails between their legs.”
“The resistance sure is impressive.” I added. “If it wasn’t for your tenacious stubbornness, Marco and I would be on a train to Stulag right now.”
“La Madonna she smiles on us Pietro.” Marco was starting to wake up. “When we get back to my village, I’ll find you a nice wife, almost as beautiful as my Carmella, the most beautiful woman in all of Limosano.”
“Limosano? Mamma mia! You two have a long way to go yet,” Carlino pushed the car harder up a steep pass. “I heard there’s an old witch there that can make your pecker grown two inches if you pay her enough money.”
“C’mon. You don’t believe those stories!” Marco laughed. “The only thing those witches are good for is curing a belly-ache.”
“Speak for yourself,” Carlino managed to keep the little fiat upright as we twisted down through a mountain pass. “The witches in Tuscany will turn you into a pig if you’re not careful. It happened to my brother-in-law.”
“That’s the most absurd thing I’ve ever heard.” I scoffed. “You Italians are so superstitious. The stories you have are incredible!”
“Never believe a Tuscan Pietro. “
“Who ever wants a serene life, should live a humble and happy life my friend.” Carlino replied. “We’re a proud culture, with ancient roots. Don’t misunderstand magic for superstition, or you’ll find yourself in big trouble.”
Carlino slowed the car down and pulled into a long narrow road. An old stone farmhouse was visible down at the end of the lane way.
“Don Alexandro is probably waiting for us.” Carlino stopped the car. “I’m sure Francesco has wired ahead.”
Chapter Nine
Senior Minicucci
“Ciao Marco, why so glum? It’s Christmas and you’re home alive.” The old man sipped his espresso. “What more can you ask for.”
“It’s nothing. Just tired.” Marco gulped his coffee back and ordered a second. “I’ve seen more in a year than most men in this village will see in their lifetimes.”
“Sure, sure. It’s written all over your face. I know.” The old man laughed. “When my wife died last year I looked just like you. Forty years we were married. She was the only reason I got up in the morning. I loved her with all my heart and soul. She looked after me and I still don’t know what to do without her.”
“That sounds rough.” Marco sipped his second espresso. “Luckily I’m not that bad.”
“Not yet, but you’re close.” The old man leaned back in his chair. “What’s her name?”
“Carmella,” Marco sighed. “You’re right. I’m getting close to being lost. I love her so much it hurts at night to sleep without her in my arms, it feels like I’m dying a slow death.”
“Carmella Moccia?”
“”Si.”
“Mamma mia. You’re definitely in trouble. She’s the most beautiful woman in Limosano! What’s wrong?”
“We were engaged to marry before I was posted.” Marco explained. “There was so much tenderness between us. We would sneak out a night and kiss under the stars, plan our life, our family, together. She’d laugh at my jokes, respond eagerly to my touches.”
“Young love. Que bella.” The old man smiled. “These are the best years of your life ragazzo.”
“Then when I got home,” Marco continued, “she was distant, cold, uninterested. All I could think of the last year was my beautiful Carmella and now she’s playing hard to get. I could be dead in some Nazi camp in Germany. But I’m not. I’m here, alive, and ready to settle down. It’s frustrating.”
“You should talk to her, tell her how much you love her.”
“I did. She told me she wants to take it slow. Wants to get to know me again. Rekindle the fire and all that nonsense.”
“Maybe she’s got a point.” The old man sat up in his chair. “Enjoy this chance to fall in love all over again with the one woman you want to spend the rest of your life with. This is a gift. It doesn’t come very often and you’d be a fool to spit in the face of St. Valentino. He’s smiling on you right now. If you lose this opportunity, well, buona notte al secchio. Your heart it’s going to go dalle stelle alle stalle!”
“So you think I should just ease off a little bit?”
“Certomente. It’s Christmas. Give her a nice gift. Spend time with her. Get back in touch with why you love this woman so much. Don’t be so eager to jump into bed with her and make babies. There’s lots of time for that. Savour the time you have now. It’s special. Once you’ve got the kids to look after - oh ma - it’s a different story. Don’t get me wrong, there’s nothing more important than la familliga, asides from la Madonna of course, but you know what I mean.”
“I think so.”
“Va bene. This is what you need to do. Go see Faustina La Vechia, the witch, in St. Angelo. She makes the best love potions. Guaranteed to work for forty years! Just make sure nobody knows you’re going to see la Stregha Vechia, especially Father D’Angello. He’ll flat out refuse to marry you and Carmella if he finds out you’ve enlisted the help of La Vechia. She’s a mean old woman but crafty. Bring a pocketful of money too, cause she’s not cheap. ”
“You’re kidding me right? La Stregha Vechia? She’s a grumpy old woman that makes folk charms and scares children. I’m not going to pay her the little money I have for something that isn’t ever going to do what it’s supposed to.”
“Suit yourself ragazzo. La Vechia can give you an insurance policy. It’s easy.” The old man folded his arms in front of him. “Then you can enjoy yourself and sleep easy knowing that you’re going to spend the rest of your life with your anima gemella.”
“I guess when you put it that way it sounds more appealing.”
“Veramente. It’ll be the best money you’ve ever spent,” assured the Old Man. “Guaranteed.”
“I hope you’re right. Until we’ve got the tractor built, money is really tight right now.”
“So it’s you who’s building the tractor!?” The old man seemed interested in changing the topic of conversation. “Nicolitto just told me about your crazy idea. If you don’t get killed before it’s finished, I think you’re going to make a lot of money! It’s exactly what this village needs.”
“We’ve got one of the best military explosive experts helping,” said Marco, “so I think we’re pretty much guaranteed to have the tractor operational by the spring. Just in time to get the first crop in.”
“You might as well get a protective charm from La Vechia when you visit her. It can’t hurt to have a bit of an extra help looking out for you, if you know what I mean.”
“If I have any money left over after she’s robbed me, I’ll consider it.” Marco stood up and pulled his thick wool coat on. “I better get going. We just found the perfect truck to dissemble for parts for the tractor. Pietro is going to sweep the area and make sure it’s safe so we can start salvaging the materials. I’m convinced the engine is perfect!”
“Sta attento. Be careful. Nobody likes a funeral at Christmas.” The old Man pointed his finger at Marco. “Make sure you make this the one season Carmella will never forget.”
“Buon Natlae Senior Minicucci. Thanks for the advice.”
Marco tipped his hat as he left the small cafe. The wind was swirling around the piazza and the snow was starting to come in from the mountains.
If I’m going to St. Angelo I better go now before the storm hits. Marco thought to himself. I sure hope this old man knows what he’s talking about. I wonder if there’s gas in my motorcycle?
Marco pulled his hat snug onto his head and flipped the collar of his coat up.
Chapter Ten
Villa Alexandro
That morning at Don Alexandro’s, Marco and I ate like kings. It had been a long journey from Milan and we hadn’t eaten very much along the way. Don Alexandro’s wife and daughters kept bringing more and more food and coffee and by mid morning we could barely stand up.
“Go sleep. Alexandro will want to talk to you in the morning.” Don Alexandro’s wife was a soft-spoken woman, who held a commanding presence. “Maria will show you to your rooms.”
Maria was a beautiful young woman. Her long auburn hair fell in tight curls around her breasts, which were perfectly formed and proportioned. Her dark eyes betrayed a shyness the deepened her beauty like a spring rose ready to bloom.
After showing us to our rooms, Maria disappeared, leaving only a trace of her beauty in my room.
That night, I dreamt of a giant spider, dancing in its web. If Marco hadn’t woken me up, I probably would have slept through the whole day, caught in that spider’s web.
“Come on Pietro, can’t you smell the delicious coffee?” Marco was, as usual, full of energy. “I don’t know about you, but I slept like a king last night. The only thing that would’ve made it better was if that young nymph Maria had taken me up on my offer to spend the night!”
We followed the rich aroma of coffee down one of the many hallways of the old Tuscan estate to a large room where Don Alexander and Carlino sat in oversized chairs in front of a large, deep-set fireplace. A stack of wood on one side of the fireplace reaching high to the ceiling.
Don Alexandro was an imposing man. His large six-foot frame protected a heart of gold, and a sharpness of intellect unmatched by anyone I’ve met since. His kind face was outlined by a well-trimmed and short grey beard. And his clothes were immaculately pressed and of the highest quality. He smoked a pipe, absentmindedly tapping the ashes out and refilling the bowl with fresh tobacco.
“How was the drive Carlino?” Don Alexandro and Carlino sat around the blazing fire, sipping their coffee. “Any sign’s of the Nazi retreat?”
“Pretty quiet,” replied Carlino. “I don’t think the Germans haven’t started marching north from Rome. They’re still holding onto the city like a precious pearl.”
“Everyone’s hiding,” said Marco. “Nobody want’s to come out of their houses and risk being captured by the fascists.”
“Or maybe their just dead,” I added. “The rubble in Viareggio reminded me of gravestones.”
“Ah good morning gentlemen. Please, sit down.” Don Alexandro motioned to two empty chairs. “So you saw what happened in Viareggio. A lot of people died.”
“The Nazi’s are also killing young Italian men they suspect as being part of the resistance,” Carlino gazed into the fire. “We’ve lost a lot of good soldiers. Men with families. Hitler's men are ruthless. They’re heartless animals.”
“Our intel has just informed us that the American’s have advanced just south of Rome around Monte Cassino. German Panzer Scouts have been sighted north of Rome. The resistance is organizing a counter-offensive,” Don Alexandro got up and put another log into the fireplace. “We believe that by the spring, the Americans will take Rome and German forces will begin marching into the hamlets high in the Tuscan hills.”
“The resistance can mount a counter offensive - if you’re ready. It could help the American line considerably,” I suggested. “The Canadians have got the east side pretty well locked down. Although since I was captured in Ortona I don’t know what’s happening.”
“The latest we heard, your men drove the German’s out of the city.” Carlino informed us. “The German troops lacked reinforcements, and finally retreated. But the casualties were high. You’re lucky to be alive.”
“Exactly,” beamed Don Alexandro. “We’re always on the search for good soldiers like the two of you. I could offer you a significant position in one of our units.”
“It’s a tempting offer. But I’ve seen enough action,” replied Marco. ”There’s a beautiful woman waiting for me back home. She’s all I can think of right now.”
“I’m hoping to reconnect with my outfit back in Campobasso,” I added. ”I suspect they could still use the help of a good engineer.”
“Too bad for us.” Don Alexandro sat back in his chair. “We can probably get you as close as Rome. But it’ll be dangerous.”
“You’re better off staying around here until the spring,” added Carlino. “I’m sure Don Alexandro could keep you busy on the farm.”
“Thanks for the offer,” replied Marco. “But like I said, I’m anxious to get back home.”
“I understand. Love is a powerful magnet.” Don Alexandro puffed on his pipe. “Only death will take the one who is destined for you. Giancarlo will drive you to Rome in a few days, when the weather clears. In the meantime, enjoy your time here.”
And we did. We ate, drank and flirted with Maria. When the time came for us to leave with Carlino for Rome, both Marco and I were reconsidering if we had made the right choice. Maybe staying at Don Alexandro’s for a little while longer wasn’t such a bad idea after all.
Chapter Eleven
La Stregha Vechia
The old man at the cafe gave Marco detailed directions on how to get to La Stregha Vechia’s house. After tracking down his motorcycle, he drove the short distance up the mountain and into the wind to Limosano’s sister village, Sant’Angelo.
Located at the foot of the ruins of an ancient medieval castle, on a clear day from San’Angelo you had a beautiful panoramic view of the Tremiti islands to the east and the peaks of the Maiella Range to the west.
That morning Marco couldn’t see anything but the snow blowing in from the mountains. It was going to be one heck of a storm, perfect for Christmas.
Just past the the statue of the Stelle delle Madonna, Marco turned his motorcycle left and followed the narrow cobblestone street up towards the Chiesa di St. Pier Celestino. At the top of the hill he parked the motrocycle on the side of the street.
The old man said La Stregha Vechia’s house was number thirteen, just up the street from the church.
Marco knocked loudly on the old door. After a few minutes he knocked again.
The door opened an inch and a wizened old face peered out from the crack that appeared.
“What do you want?” The old woman’s voice was deep and gravely. “Shouldn’t you be home building a tractor?”
“Old Man Minicucci told me about you.”
“Looking for a Christmas gift are you?” The door opened wider. La Stregha Vechia was a short woman, with a slight hunch. She wore a black kerchief on her head and a black shawl wrapped around her tiny body. Her hands were gnarly, like the knobs of an ancient olive tree. When she smiled, her white teeth contrasted sharply with the dark silhouette of her widowhood. “Avanti!”
La Stregha Vechia led Marco up a short, steep set of stairs to a small room in the back of her house.
There were candles burning in the corners of the room, casting a warm glow onto the faces of the many Saints that hung on the wall. On the back wall was a small altar, where various herbs hung drying next to a large statue of the Virgin Mary.
Marco couldn’t figure out why the Madonna looked so dark. Maybe it was the dim reflection of the candles burning on the altar next to the stature, casting shadows on her face and hands.
“Ah la Madonna.” La Vechia noticed Marco’s interest in the statue. ‘You have a connection with her I see. Don’t be afraid that she’s black, she’s older than this place, older than that church,” she gestured with her hands towards the Chiesa di St. Pier Celestino, “she is the light in the dark, the grandmother of us all and almost as old as me.” The witch chucked under her breath. “So you want a love potion?”
“Um yea.” Marco pretended not to be surprised. “How much is it going to cost me?”
“That depends.” La Stregha Vechia went over to the altar produced a small vial from the behind the statue of the Virgin Mary. “Are we just talking about lira?”
“Of course.” Marco replied surprised. “What else? Chickens?”
“Uffah! Eco lei.” She passed the vial to Marco. “One hundred lira.”
“How about fifty?”
“Don’t fool with me boy.” The air in the room became very heavy and quiet. “This isn’t the market in Campobasso. I’m not a fishmonger.”
“I meant no disrespect.” Marco dug into the pocket of his coat and handed over a stack of bills. “I’ll take it.”
“Wise choice. There aren’t many women like Carmella Moccia around here.” La Stregha Vechia counted out the bills and placed the stack of cash on the altar. “Just remember this isn’t a game. That potion is very powerful, so use it wisely, and make sure you say a prayer to St. Valentino before you give it to her. You want him on your side when you do this.”
“You were talking to Old Man Minicucci weren’t you?” Marco started to suspect he was being swindled. “How else could you know about Carmella?”
“I know many things. Most of them you’ll never know. A lot of them you wouldn’t want to know.” La Stregha Vechia picked something up off her altar and passed it to Marco. “No charge for this.”
Marco took the cimaruta in his hand and inspected the handiwork. Carved on the three branches of the small wooden charm were a fish, a crescent moon, a closed hand and a key. He slipped the cimaruta around his neck.
“I’ve never seen one so beautifully carved before.”
“It’ll help you finish building that stupid tractor without blowing your pecker off. You’re gonna need it once you give her this potion.” La Stregha Vechia laughed, and her eyes momentarily became lost in the deep lines etched into her face. “Now get back to Limosano before the storm outside gets any worse and swallows you up.”
Marco wished the witch a merry Christmas and made his way back out onto the street where he parked his motorcycle.
In a matter of an hour, almost a foot of snow had accumulated, making the ride back down to Limosano very treacherous.
Marco, however, didn’t seem to notice that his motorcycle was having difficulty finding traction. All he could think about was how to slip the potion discreetly to Carmella.
I still wonder whether it was this sheer determination to make Carmella love him that saved his life that morning driving back from Sant’Angelo, or the protective magic cimaruta that the witch gave him.
Carmella arrived at the Del Gobo’s house for the Christmas Eve feast promptly at seven o’clock that evening. Sevirno and Primo were busy playing music; while I was helping Marco’s mama set the table for dinner.
Marco’s father greeted Carmella with his big booming voice as she made her way inside the cozy house full of the smell of Mama Del Gobo’s cooking.
“He’s upstairs warming by the fire. Silly boy drove his motorcycle up to San’Angelo this morning to do something. Almost killed himself on the way home. I don’t think he’ll ever learn to sit still.”
Marco greeted Carmella with a big hug and a kiss as she came upstairs. Her cheeks were rosy red from the weather outside.
“What a storm!” Marco commented. “I almost didn’t make it back from San’Angelo today.”
“You went to San’Angelo today?” Carmella sat down next to Marco by the fire. “What were you thinking!?”
“Obviously I wasn’t.” Marco put another log into the fire. “Honestly, I didn’t even notice the weather on the way home.”
“Always the brave solider aren’t you,” joked Carmella. “You could’ve died out there. What was so important in San’Angelo that you needed to go this morning?”
“Somebody gave me a tip that there was an old army truck sitting around that the nun’s had been using,” lied Marco. “I thought it might be safer to use that than get our legs blown off in the fields looking around for scrap metal.”
“Now you’re thinking!” Carmella gave Marco’s hand a squeeze. “So what happened?”
“It turned out to be nothing. But the nun’s were surprised to see me!” Marco changed the topic. “Where’s your ma and pa? I thought they were going to come over?”
“They didn’t want to go outside in the snow and decided to have a quiet meal together. We’ll see them later at mass.”
“Mama is going to be upset. You know how she gets with these things.” Mama Del Gobo was giving Peter directions on how to set the table properly. “Do you want something to drink? Sam’s made some warm spiced wine. It’s delicious. I’ve already had two glasses!”
“Sure why not. It’s Christmas!”
In the kitchen, when he was sure nobody was watching, Marco slipped La Vechia’s potion from the inside pocket of his vest, and said a quiet prayer to St. Valentino, just as the stregha had instructed him to.
May this potion be as potent as the love I feel for Carmella. May it be the glue that binds our love together forever and a day. O glorious advocate and protector, look with pity upon my wants, please hear my request and attend to my prayer, relieve this misery that pains my heart, and obtain for me the divine blessing of my soul’s desire.
He poured the potion into a glass with a small amount of spiced wine and returned to the table where everybody was now seated. Carmela sat beside Peter., and Marco handed her the spiked glass of wine. He took his seat next to her on the other side.
“Salute!” Severino toasted.
“Welcome home Marco!” Primo exclaimed.
“Welcome to Limosano Pietro!”Marco added.
“Buon Natlae!” I offered up in my best Italian.
Marco watched Carmella sipped the wine slowly, and by the time the pasta course was cleared from the table, she had finished drinking it.
“So Peter, what do you do in Canada for Christmas?” asked Carmella.
“Usually we cook a turkey,” I answered. “In fact, it seems like for every special meal we cook a turkey. Compared to Italians, we’re culinary cowards. Always doing the same boring thing.”
“I like la turchia.” Severino poured himself another glass of wine. “Sometimes Pa brings them home from the woods.”
“Those aren’t turkeys,” corrected Primo. “We only have la fagiano. They’re smaller and leaner. Turkey’s are only in America.”
“Another reason to move to America then.” Severino refilled the rest of the wine glasses on the table. “If one turkey equals the same meat of six pheasant then it’s surely the land of plenty!”
“Enough talk about moving to America,” ordered Papa Del Gobo in a half-serious tone. “It’s Christmas Eve and I don’t want your mother getting upset.”
As if on cue, Mama Del Gobo returned to the table with the next course. There was pesce al forno, made with fresh trout from the Biferno River.; bacàla with garlic and potatoes; carciofi ripieni; and peeled sweet peppers stuffed with breadcrumbs, anchovies, parsley, basil and peperoncino, sautéed and cooked with chopped tomatoes.
To Mama Delgobo’s delight, everyone ate with hearty appetites. As usual, Severino ate three plates and even Marco had a second helping. Just as everyone thought they couldn’t eat anymore, coffee and desert was served.
“Now we get ready and make our way down to the Church for midnight mass.” Mama Del Gobo was finally sitting down, enjoying the last few sips of her espresso. “Father D’Angello is all fired up about his Christmas mass tonight. He told me he’s got something new planned.”
“We have to get up?” I groaned. “I don’t think I’ve ever eaten so much food in my life.”
“Welcome to Italy.” Severino was the first one up from the table. “We may be poor but we still know how to turn a few measly lira into a five course meal.”
“You sure did well for a Canadese,” teased Carmella. “Maybe we’ll get a little bit of shape out of that skinny body of yours after all.”
“Don’t be fooled by his skinny-silent type. He could out match me in a pasta eating contest any day,” added Marco. “Like this time when we were in a tiny cafe in Trestevere. I’ve never seen anyone eat that much spaghetti diavolillo before.”
“His ass must’ve been burning in the morning,” ribbed Primo.
“Stop teasing him!” Carmella was getting noticeably upset. She looked tenderly at Peter. “He’s here without any family, and it’s Christmas.”
“You started it.” Marco was surprised that Carmella was being so sensitive about Peter. “It’s all in good fun.”
“Andiamo! We’ve got five minutes before mass starts,” interrupted Papa Del Gobo . “We don’t want to give Father D’Angello any more heartburn than he already has.”
Stories will always be told in Limosano about that Christmas eve in 1944. The fresh snow lay heavy in the streets and rooftops of the houses in the village.
When the lights turned off near midnight, the moonlight on the fresh snow seemed to reflect a magic that was in everyone’s hearts. A magic nobody believed could return after the horrors of the last few years. But the war was now over and, even though every day seemed to be a struggle to survive, that one night nobody was worrying, or crying, or feeling hungry or lonely. Even Father D’Angello marveled at how many people came to midnight mass that evening. There was electricity in the old church that even the old resident ghost, Brother Luciano, couldn’t put his finger on.
Chapter Twelve
La Befana
“So was La Befana good to you Pietro?” Carmella sipped her coffee slowly. “I bet she was.”
“I think so.” I was feeling nervous spending time alone with Carmella in the cafe. I didn’t mention it to Marco because she had asked me not to. “She delivered this great invitation for coffee with the most beautiful woman in Limosano.”
“Basta Pietro!” Carmella chided me gently. “You’ve been spending too much time with Marco!”
“Well it’s true. On both accounts!” I was enjoying this time together with Carmella, even though my conscious was screaming at me. “I have been spending too much time with Marco. But you’re still the most beautiful woman this side of Napoli.”
“Everybody’s been talking about Father D’Angello’s mass on Christmas Eve.” She changed the subject. “I can’t believe there were so many people there. His sermon on love was so moving it made me cry.” Carmella wiped her hand to her eye. I couldn’t tell if she was actually crying or just doing it for dramatic effect. “I especially liked how he stressed that Christmas comes around once a year to remind us that God isn’t keeping records and tallying ledgers regarding our status or position in life. That the story of Christmas really is the beginning of the most classic love story. It has all the right ingredients: infatuation, pursuit, risk and relationship.”
“He sure did get animated.” I added. “I thought he was going to knock the candles over.”
I’ve never been much a religious person. The deep seriousness Italians maintained for the Catholic Church always surprised me. Even in a village like Limosano, that still practiced many of the old folk traditions and superstitions, the priest was treated with a respect that seemed to be fueled by the fear of an almighty, all seeing God. Little did I realize that it wasn’t really the wrath of God people were worried about, but something more insidious and spiteful. The respect offered to the priest was in fact a smoke screen to an ancient practice that had strong roots in Limosano and the surrounding villages.
“I wondered the same thing,” laughed Carmella. “But I was more worried that he was going to catch his robe on fire!”
“That would have been quite the show. In the army they taught us the stop, drop and roll if we found ourselves on fire.” I explained. “It happened quite a bit in combat. I lost a good friend that way. He stepped on an edge of a land mine, and instead of his body parts being shattered into a million pieces, he burnt to death. His legs were blown off so he couldn’t roll the fire out. I wanted to run in and throw a blanket over him but the whole area was littered with land mines. Watching him burn like that and not being able to help was one of the most painful experiences I’ve ever had.”
“That’s horrible. I can only imagine the gruesome things you’ve seen. When the Nazi’s came through Limosano they were so brutal. They went from house to house taking all the food they could find. When they found young Tony Lorenza hiding in his family’s barn, they dragged him to the piazza, just outside there,” Carmella pointed to the snow covered piazza outside of the cafe where we were sitting, “and shot him point-blank in the head. The gunshot echoed all throughout the village. They left his dead body there for everybody to see. I don’t think his mother will ever recover from the shock and humiliation of having her only son treated like a dog. I know I wouldn’t be able to.”
“That’s why Marco is lucky to have survived.” I really wanted to take Carmella’s hand into mine. To feel her soft skin. To be as close to her as I could get. “After Badoglio signed the Armistizio the Nazis started killing Italian soldiers and young men with ruthless abandon. They saw them as traitors who deserved to be punished. Good thing Marco was working on that special plane, it saved his life. I’m sure he’s changed a bit since he first left here, but he’s been through a lot, give him a chance.”
“He has changed. You’re right. We’ve all changed. Its been a hard few years and it’s going to stay like that for a little while still, until we can get back on our feet.” To my surprise, Carmella reached across the table and took my hand, sending shivers up my spine. Her skin was as soft and warm as I imagined it would be. “I understand you’ve been through a lot and I’m grateful that you’re here for Marco. That he has a good friend he can lean on. Just remember if you need anything, or want to talk about anything, I’m here too.” Under her deep olive complexion, I could see her starting to blush. “Sometimes you need a woman to talk to. Someone who’s more sensitive and thinks differently than a man. You’re in a new place without a sister, or mother, or girlfriend to talk heart to heart with. I want you to feel comfortable with me Pietro. To know that I’m here if you need somebody to lean on. Non scherzo!”
“That’s very kind of you. I really appreciate the gesture.” I was convinced my heart was going to burst out of my chest. It was beating so fast. “So was there something you want to talk to me about?”
“Remember what we chatted about last time, just before Christmas?”
“I mentioned it to him the other day. Suggested he play it cool and enjoy this new opportunity to get to know you again.”
“So what did he say?”
“He laughed and said I was a genius.”
“Did he agree?”
“He thought it was an excellent idea and told me he didn’t want to screw up his chance to be with the only woman he’s ever loved.”
“Typical Marco. Sometimes I wonder if he actually believes himself.” Carmella sighed and shook her head. “I wish he wasn’t so dramatic all the time. It gets tiring.”
“I can assure you he really means what he says.” Part of me agreed with Carmella. But Marco was my best friend and I felt obliged to stick up for him. “He really does love you. He’s a very lucky man.”
“Non Lamento! I don’t want to complain. I just feel so comfortable talking to you about this. You’re a good friend. Now you should get going. I’m sure they’re waiting for you to get busy on this tractor project. Did that truck from San’Angelo ever work out?”
“I don’t know what Marco was talking about. He never mentioned it again. I don’t think there ever was a truck in San’Angelo.”
“That’s strange. Why would he lie to me like that? That’s not like Marco at all.”
“I can’t figure it out either.” I got up from the table and kissed Carmella on both cheeks. “I better get going. We’re planning on hauling an engine out of an old army truck down in Accinni’s olive orchard. But first we need to clear it of land mines to see if it’s any good. We’re working out a strategy today.”
“Be careful! Fatti vivo! And don’t tell Marco we had coffee. He’ll get jealous! It’s our secret.”
“I like secrets.” I kissed Carmella politely on both cheeks as we said our goodbyes. “I won’t tell a soul.”
It was hard to leave her in the cafe, but I knew that I couldn’t fall in love with her. Infatuation was manageable. But falling in love with was a lot harder and, as I later found out, a lot more dangerous.
Chapter Thirteen
Roma
We left the comfort of Don Alexandro’s country estate early one morning, piling into Carlino’s small fiat. The plan was to drive south towards Rome on the back-roads through Tuscany. Carlino was going to drop us off just outside of the city limits and we were going to hitchhike our way east to Monterotondo and then through the mountains to Campobasso and finally to Limosano. There were apparently a lot of resistance fighters in the hills and mountains east of Rome.
Don Alexandro gave us two Beretta pistols with enough ammo and rations to last a few weeks in the mountains. He also gave us the name of a contact in Rome who he said would look after us for the winter if we decided we didn’t want to freeze to death in the snow-covered Apennine Mountain passes.
It was hard to leave the prospect of spending more time in the luxury of the Tuscan highlands, surrounded by the beauty of that rolling landscape and the enchanting shyness of Don Alexandro’s daughter. If Marco hadn’t been so infatuated with Carmella, I think he most likely wouldn’t have been so eager to leave. I know I wasn’t. The latest intelligence reports from Don Alexandro’s men noted a very strong, and aggressive Nazi presence in Rome.
“You guys are lucky. I’m surprised Don Alexandro let you leave like that. He’s been recruiting a lot of men into the resistance lately. We need all the help we can find.” Carlino was munching on one of the sandwiches that Maria had given as we left that morning. “He must’ve really liked you.”
“Of course. What isn’t to like about us?” Marco asked rhetorically. “We’re smart, handsome and snappy dressers.”
“You know you’re crazy-crossing over the mountains in the middle of winter,” Carlino answered matter-of-factly. “It’s a death wish.”
“I still think we should go to Rome first,” I suggested non-committedly. “It’s risky, but Don Alexandro said there is a strong group of partisans in the city that could use our help.”
“It’s too dangerous. We’ll end up back in Milano, this time in body bags,” Marco replied convincingly. “We’ve come too far to risk that.”
“Vincenzo Baldazzi will look after you,” Carlino advised knowingly. “He’s very trustworthy and has many safe places throughout the city.”
“But we can’t just walk into the city and ask for Baldazzi.” I wasn’t convinced that going in through the gates of Rome and asking for Baldazzi was going to get us very far. “Who’s going to trust us?”
“If our intel is right, the Allies are building their forces south of the city at Monte Cassino. They’re also going to land a few divisions north at Anzio. Rome will be next,” Carlino explained thoroughly. “So if you sit it out, it’ll only be a matter of time before you’re back on safe ground again.”
“But if the American’s bomb Rome, we could end up in the rubble,” I protested. “Maybe we’re better off in the mountains.”
“Where you’ll freeze to death,” Carlino snickered. “There’s no real safe place right now my friend.”
“We’re soldiers,” Marco reminded all us, as if somehow we’d forgotten we were at war. “We’re trained to survive the elements.”
“Fuck. Quick,” Carlino exclaimed with conviction, his gaze returning to the road from the car’s rearview mirror. “Get those guns in the back.”
“Damn.” Marco turned around to look out the back of the small car. “Nazi Officers.”
Marco handed me one of the pistols from the backseat.
“What’s going on?”
I quickly grabbed the Baretta pistol and turned around to sees two German Officers on motorcycles quickly flanking our small fiat.
“I hope you guys are a good shot,” Carlino mumbled loudly as he sped the car up. “You’re only going to get once chance.”
The little fiat was no match for those German BMWs. It was only a matter of seconds before the two officers were shouting at us in Italian to pull over to the side of the road.
“Anytime now would be good,” Carlino suggested calmly. “What are you waiting for?”
Marco and I rolled down the windows in the fiat, gesturing at the soldiers to indicate that we understood what they wanted us to do.
Marco pulled the trigger first, planting a bullet right between the edge of the Officer’s helmet and his goggles. The other officer, seeing the gun I had pointed at him, tried to slow his motorcycle down, but he was too late.
“Well it’s about time,” Carlino sighed deeply. “I thought I was going to have to shoot him myself.”
Carlino pulled the fiat over to the side of the road. Marco was the first out of the car, running over to make sure the two officers were dead.
“Good shot Pietro,” Marco beamed proudly after examining the bodies thoroughly. “I’m going to have to take you out hunting pheasants when we get back to the village.”
“Que Fortuna,” Carlino marveled happily after examining the two BMW motorcycles. “These look fine. A few scratches but nothing serious.”
“Come and help me Pietro,” Marco encouraged me enthusiastically as he busied himself undressing the dead bodies. “This afternoon we’re going to enter Rome in style as Nazi SS Officers. ”
After a brief struggle with the still warm bodies, we managed to get the uniforms and boots off the two soldiers. It was a cold morning so we undressed quickly. Luckily for us, the two Germans were about our size and height so the uniforms fit almost perfectly.
“You guys look pretty scary,” Carlino whistled loudly. “You better be careful or you might get shot by one of Baldazzi’s men.”
“I always wondered what it would feel like to be a German Officer,” Marco pondered out loud as he buttoned up the officer’s overcoat and placed the motorcycle helmet onto his head. “So far I don’t like it.”
“It feels dirty,” I offered honestly. “I wonder how many good soldiers these men killed.”
“You shouldn’t have any trouble getting into Rome now,” Carlino got back into the fiat and turned the ignition. The little car coughed a few times and belched black smoke out of the exhaust before the engine started to whine. “I guess your decision has been made for you.”
“Hopefully we’ll be able to make our way over the mountains from Rome quicker now with these motorcycles.”
I pulled one of the BMWs up right off the ground and straddled it before kick-starting the motor. The German engine purred to life like an eager mare ready to canter.
Marco loaded the gear from the car onto the motorcycles.
“When you get to Rome, find Baldazzi,” Carlino reminded us. “Leave the mountains till the spring. Baldazzi will look after you. Tell him Don Alexandro sent you. Those two go way back.”
“Thanks for all your help Carlino.” I offered. “We couldn’t have gotten here without you. Drive safe back north. It looks like there are some Nazi patrols out on the road.”
“Lets get out of here before we have any more visitors.” Marco was sitting on his motorcycle with the German officer’s goggles secured tightly on his face, the engine of the BMW purring softly underneath of him.
“Good luck,” Carlino sat in the fiat watching from the side of the road as we drove away. “And make sure you check out this little restaurant in Trastevere, Spirito Di Vino. I guarantee they make the best pasta diavolo you’ll ever eat.”
That was the last we saw of Carlino.
Chapter Fourteen
Mi Amore
“Come on Carmella. What’s the matter? I don’t understand all these mixed messages,” Marco confessed, the strain in his voice evident. “Can’t you see I’m really trying here.”
“That’s the problem. You’re trying too hard. You need to give me more space. “ Carmella asserted confidently. “You’re too clingy.”
“More space? Haven’t I given you enough already?” Marco cried. “One year wasn’t enough?”
“You scare me, “Carmella replied honestly. “I don’t know what happened to you in the war. But its changed you. You’re not the same person you used to be.”
“My love, we’ve all changed. These are hard times,” Marco continued more gently. “It’s only going to get better. That I can guarantee.”
“I just wish you were more like Pietro. He listens to me. I feel like I can talk to him.”
“Come here.” Marco held his arms out and Carmella reluctantly accepted the embrace. “We’ll get through this. We’ll figure it all out. Just tell me what you need. “
“Time. I just need more time. I want us to take this slow.” Carmella nestled her face into Marco’s chest. “I want our first time to be magical.”
“Va Bene. No problema.” Marco pulled the love of his life deeper into his arms. “How’s the wedding planing coming along?”
“It’s on hold.”
“What do you mean on hold?” Marco abruptly broke their embrace, putting his hands on Carmella’s shoulders. “I thought we agreed Easter?”
“This is exactly what I mean.” Carmella complained, stepping away from Marco. “What’s the rush Marco? Are you afraid I’m going to fall in love with another man and leave you?”
“Don’t play with my heart Carmella,” Marco warned seriously. “One thing I learned from the war is to live each day like it’s your last. You never know when death may come looking for you.”
“Well maybe this is going to be our last day together.”
Carmella quickly walked away from Marco down the cobblestones and up the short flight of stairs leading into her house, slamming the door shut behind her.
On the street, Marco watched her leave stunned, a tear falling from his eye, wondering how the only woman he’d ever loved could walk away in anger from him like that.
Chapter Fifteen
Baldazzi
It didn’t take long for Marco and I to make our way through the outskirts of Rome and into the city center.
It was a good thing we stopped with Carlino where we did because only a few miles away a handful of German infantry were dug into positions guarding the gates of Rome, like soldiers from long ages past.
Driving into Rome on those motorcycles dressed as German Officers was as frightening as it was exhilarating. While there was definitely a strong Nazi presence in Rome, people went about their business as best they could. The rubble strewn streets were a constant reminder that we were still at war. A war that didn’t seem to have any indication of ending soon.
All the angry and scared looks we received from Italian citizens confirmed that our attempt to imitate SS Officers was working.
Considering the sheer number of German troops in the city, we decided, at the last moment, that maybe it was a good idea, after all, to seek out Baldazzi.
Marco and I both agreed that Baldazzi could probably help us find the best route through the mountains. And the prospects of heading up into the snowy mountain passes on motorcycles started to feel less and less appealing as we drove through those narrow roman streets trying to find Baldazzi’s hide-out.
Luckily Marco was able to get directions from a very reluctant young woman. Unfortunately, he had to threaten to take her in for questioning if she didn’t give us precise information on how find the address that Don Alexandro gave us.
It turned out Baldazzi’s place was located in Trastevere, far outside the inner city on the west bank of the Tiber River, and south of the Vatican City. In ancient times this Roman district was the quarter for sailors, foreigners and the wares of a certain merchant class. After all those years, Trastevere was still a maze of ancient narrow streets and interesting shops where you could buy anything for the right price. It seemed a fitting place for a resistance stronghold.
We made our way down via Trastevere, which was the wide and busy thoroughfare that acted as a boundary between the central and the southern part of the district. People scattered quietly in every direction to avoid us.
Following the directions Marco extracted from that poor lady, we made our way past piazza Belli and the Anguillara and down the narrow street via della Lungaretta. Marco turned left at the end of the street onto an even narrower lane, vicolo dell’Atleta.
“There should be a small alley down here,” Marco pointed down the empty lane that ran between the old houses. I never got tired of seeing the layers of history in the Rome. Every building seemed to have some kind of story “She said it’s really easy to miss.”
It matter of seconds we were surrounded by three men dressed in black who were pointing riffles at us and speaking in German.
“Don’t shoot,” Marco exclaimed in Italian, putting his hands into the air. “We’re really not SS Officers, Don Alexandro sent us.”
“How did you find us?” The man who seemed to be the leader gestured with his rifle for us to get off our motorcycles. “How do you know Don Alexandro?”
One of the men searched and disarmed us while the other disappeared down the lane with the motorcycles.
“Don Alexandro gave us this address,” Marco sputtered nervously. “He said we should speak to Baldazzi - that he’d help us.”
“Help you do what,” asked the man who was searching us. “What do you want?”
“Give us a safe place to stay while we’re in Rome,” I replied confidently. “We’re here to help.”
“Blindfold them and bring them to Baldazzi,” ordered the leader to the other man. “And kill them if they make any sudden move.”
Chapter Sixteen
Il Malocchio
Marco stood shivering on the steps of La Stregha Vechia’s house. After knocking for a third time the door creaked open and the witch’s gnarled faced peered through the small crack that appeared between the two worlds.
“I wasn’t expecting to see you so soon,” the Witch croaked deeply. “What do you want?”
“My money back,” Marco answered with conviction. “You ripped me off. I should’ve never listened to that old man. He was probably working for you. How does it work? Do you give him a cut of your profits? Is he your lover?”
“It doesn’t work that way.” La Stregha Vechia chortled cheerfully. “You have no idea what you’ve gotten yourself into do you?”
“I don’t care. You ripped me off. I worked hard for that money.” Marco asserted. “I want it back.”
“What’s the problem?” The witch peered intensely at Marco, sizing him up from bottom to top and then from top to bottom. “Can’t get it up? I can give you a potion for that.”
“Your potions are the problem.” Marco spat. “They don’t work.”
“Bah. My potions are the best in the Abruzzi. You can’t find anything better.” La Stregha Vechia opened her door and motioned to Marco to come inside. “I don’t like to talk business like this. The street has too may eyes and big ears.”
Marco followed the witch upstairs to the back room of her house where she met with her clients.
“Now tell me what the problem is young man.” She motioned to Marco to sit down. “It’s rare that one of my customers comes back so soon. Even rarer that they come back to complain to me. Usually it’s to bring me gifts and to thank me.”
“Carmella just broke off our engagement,” Marco explained glumly. “I don’t understand.”
“That is serious.” the Witch picked at her teeth with her long fingernails. “Not the effect we were going for was it?”
“It’s the complete opposite effect,” Marco replied seriously. “Maybe you gave me the wrong spell? Made a mistake or something.”
“You gave her the potion? Followed my instructions?”
“Of course. I wouldn’t spend that kind of money just for the hell of it.”
“On the rare occasion, one of my potions won’t work because of some kind of strong counter magic.”
Stregha la Vechia closed her eyes, and began tapping her knobby fingers on the side of the chair. After a few seconds, her eyes darted open, and a smile appeared beneath the deep wrinkles of her face.
“Varimente! I should’ve known. Carmella’s mother is a very strong witch. She must’ve given her something.”
“An antidote?” Marco was confused and starting to think that maybe he shouldn’t have gotten involved with this crazy old witch in the first place. “How would she have known?”
“Not exactly.” La Stergha Vechia stood up from her chair and went over to her altar. “Let me see what we’re dealing with here.”
Reaching behind the statue of the Virgin Mary on her altar, the witch retrieved a small wooden bowl. Placing the bowl in front of La Madonna, she produced two small bottles and mixed the liquid contents from each into the bowl. After the she was satisfied with the ratio, La Stregha Vechia knelt in front of the altar, quickly performed the sign of the cross and took the bowl into her hands.
“What are you doing,” Marco asked inquisitively.
“Silence!” The witch croaked menacingly. ”I need silence.”
La Stregha Veciha concentrated intensely on the contents of the bowl, peering deeply into the liquid.
After a few minutes, the witch lifted her head up from the bowl and placed the scrying vessel back onto the altar. She dipped two fingers into the bowl and anointed the eyes of the Virgin Mary with the liquid.
“This is more serious than I thought,” La Stregha Vechia remarked finally after sitting back down in her chair. “It’s going to take strong magic to work this one out.”
“What did you see? What’s more serious?” Marco pressed eagerly. “I hope you’ve got some answers for me.”
“This woman of yours, she no longer loves you,” the witch proclaimed matter-of-factly. “She’s decided you’re not the one.”
“Tell me something I don’t already know,” sighed Marco. “That’s what your potion was supposed to fix.”
“She’s given her heart to another man.”
“Impossible,” Marco gulped. “There’s nobody else. I would know.”
“You told me she was in love with you,” the witch grumbled. “It appears you aren’t the best judge of character.”
“She was.” Marco stuttered. “I mean I thought she was, in love with me.”
“The potion I gave you strengthens the love one has for another,” La Stregha Vechia explained calmly. “Apparently, she never really loved you.”
“Nonsense! We were engaged to get married,” Marco retorted angrily. “She’s told me over and over how much she loves me.”
“People change.”
“Who’s this other man?” Marco demanded. “Tell me who this prick is. I’ll kill him.”
“I can’t tell you. The spirits don’t give me that kind of information.”
“What can I do?” Marco pleaded. “There’s got to be something I can do.”
“Nothing.” The witch replied. “There’s nothing you can do.”
“I don’t believe you. There’s got to be something,” Marco was insistent. “You must know some way I can win her heart? To make her love me like she used to.”
The witch sat quietly staring at Marco, considering his question very carefully.
“I can cast the malocchio, the evil eye on this other man,” she said finally, breaking the tension that was building in the room. “Curse him so that your woman will never want to be with him - or won’t be able to be with him.”
“If that’s my only option I guess I have no choice.”
“It’ll cost you.”
“Whatever it takes to bring Carmella back to me,” Marco replied quickly, digging into his pockets. He offered a large roll of bills to the witch. “I’ll pay for it.”
“I’ll give you a discount.,” the witch beamed proudly. “I never give discounts.”
“Just do it!”
La Stregha Vechia went back to her altar and gathered some dried herbs and other items hanging from various nooks and crannies around her altar.
In a small cauldron, she lit a fire and began feeding the ingredients, one by one, to the small flame. The acrid smoke filled the room, along with the witch’s chanting, as Marco sat and watched, praying to his own God.
Chapter Seventeen
Trestevere
After lowering their rifles, the two men blind-folded us and took us down the lane and back through the maze of alleys. Eventually we stopped and one the men rapped quietly on a door, which opened without a sound.
We were led into a small room and the blind folds were taken off.
Standing in front of us was Vincenzo Baldazzi, a clean-shaven middle-aged man. The deep lines of many responsibilities etched into his weathered face.
Baldazzi was the leader of the anarchist wing of the Gruppi d'Azione Patriottica. He was a very intelligent man, who understood, and valued, the power of the collective will in fighting the fascist wave of intolerance and control in Italy.
He led a small group of anarchists as part of the Roman wing of the Resistenza partigiana, a spontaneous movement originally made up of independent troops, and members of the various political parties outlawed by Mussolini’s fascist regime.
“Aldo, what do you have for me today,” Baldazzi asked the young man holding onto my arm. “Looks like you’ve been out hunting again. Caught yourself two fine specimens I see.”
“We caught these two out in the alley on motorcycles,” Aldo replied smugly. “They said they were looking for you.”
“Why didn’t you just kill them and dispose of their bodies in the Tiber,” Baldazzi admonished the young partisan. “I have no use for two SS Officers. Other than to spit in their faces.”
“They said Don Alexandro sent them?” Lucky for us Aldo wasn’t going to give up so easily. “They claim Don Alexandro assured them you would look after them when the arrived in Rome.”
“Don Alexandro?” Baldazzi’s eyes light up at the mention of the old Tuscan gentleman. “Are you sure that’s what they said?”
“That’s what they said,” The second partisan declared. “I heard it clearly.”
“They’re telling the truth.” The third partisan who’d disappeared with our motorcycles closed the door behind him, throwing our gear onto the floor in front of Baldazzi. “I don’t know why SS officers would be carrying Barrettas and packs filled with Tuscan Chianti and Salciccia.”
“Moro and Rizi, show our guests inside,” Baldazzi ordered calmly. “Aldo get some glasses, Its been a while since I’ve tasted some of that good tuscan Chianti Alexandro likes to stockpile.”
Moro and Rizi led us into Baldazzi’s safe house. It was a cozy place, sparsely furnished with odd tables and chairs. The small fireplace in the middle of the house gave off a noticeable amount of heat. In the back of the house, there was a stockpile of riffles, ammunition and explosives. A steep staircase off of the kitchen led upstairs, where the partisans slept during the day.
“Explain yourselves.” Baldazzi sat down at the kitchen table with a glass of Chianti. “How did you meet my old friend Alexandro?”
“We were rescued by partisans in Milano. The nazi’s had captured us and were planning on shipping us north to the concentration camp,” Marco explained. “We found our way out of the city and were driven south to Don Alexandro’s villa high in the Tuscan foothills. When we told him that we weren’t interested in fighting with the resistance, Don Alexandro told us that you could give us a safe place to stay while we were in Rome, on our way back to Campobasso.”
“Otherwise, we were going to chance it and make the journey across the mountains,” I continued. “But we figured we’d be safer to wait out the winter a bit before driving through the mountains.”
“Who the hell are you?” Baldazzi looked directly at me. One thing we learned right away about Baldazzi was that he didn’t like to mince words. “You’re obviously not Italian. American spy?”
“Private Peter McMillian, Princes Patricia Light Infantry,” I replied. “I’m not an American spy. I’m a Canadian. Captured by the German paratroopers in Ortona.”
“Varimente?” Baldazzi seemed to lighten up at the mention of Ortona. “I heard about the hell-fires of Ortona. You’re lucky to be alive soldier. And who’s your cumpà?”
“Marco Delgobo, mechanic-first class-captured by the Germans,” Marco introduced himself proudly. “By the grace of La Madonna, and the assistance of the Partisans in Milan, I escaped the fires of the Nazi ovens and arrived in Rome yesterday with this Canadese.”
“We stayed with Don Alexandro for a few days,” I clarified. “Carlino gave us a lift into the outskirts of Rome this morning.”
“I just learned that a Nazi patrol killed Giancarlo this afternoon. He was my nephew.” Baldazzi took a long swig of his wine. “I loved him very much.”
“How did you get those Officer uniforms?” Moro was the biggest of the three partisans associated with Baldazzi. He was tall and lean, and his hands were the size of a large cantaloupe. “You can’t even buy those at the black market in Trastevere.”
“We killed two officers, stole their clothes and rode into Rome on their motorcycles,” I remarked confidently, as if it was all part of the plan. “I guess you could say we were lucky.”
“Pretty convenient.” Aldo was the smallest of the three partisans. At first I mistook him for a young boy. Little did I realize he’d killed more Nazi officers with his bare hands than most Canadian soldiers. “You guys must have horseshoes up your ass or something.”
“La Madonna she smile on us,” Marco stammered. “Funny how these things seem to work out.”
“So what do you want from me and my men?” Baldazzi was already on to his second glass of wine. “What can I offer you?”
“We’re on our way home to my village,” Marco explained, “and we need a place to stay for awhile until it’s safe to cross the mountains to Campobasso.”
“You should stay in Rome. We need good hands. Brave soldiers.” Rizi was the brains of the operation, the intellect who was always planning strategies. “There’s a lot of work to be done.”
“The Americans are mounting a huge offensive against the Gustav Line,” Moro poured himself another glass of the wine Don Alexandro’s daughter had packed for us, and cut a large piece of the tuscan Salciccia. “It’ll only be a matter of time before Rome is a free city again.”
“I can’t wait for the day when we can parade Il Duce naked down the Via del Corso,” Aldo took a small knife out of his boot and tested the sharpness of the blade against his hand. “Although I’ll miss killing Nazi officers.”
“Our intel suggests that the Americans are going to attack Cassino to draw the German reserves in Rome southwards,” Rizi put another log onto the fire. “American Marines are planning on landing a second force at Anzio north of Cassino, and close to Rome. This is going to provoke the Germans into giving up their Gustav Line and falling back north to Rome.”
“Where we’ll be ready to fight them and drive them north where they belong,” Baldazzi announced, pounding his fists on the table to emphasize his point. “Then we will have our beloved city back, free from the Nazi swine that infests it.”
Chapter Eighteen
Kubblewagon
That winter back in Limosano we worked hard to get the tractor built before spring. During the fall, before the snow covered the fields, we managed to collect the scrap metal we needed to build the tractor. Most of the people in the village didn’t think we were going to be able to pull it off. By the middle of February, however, we had the frame built. All we needed was a good engine and four tires.
One morning, while Severino, Primo and I were busy pounding the scrap metal back into shape and welding the parts together, Marco rushed into the shop out of breath, and really excited.
“I’ve found it,” he gasped, trying to catch his breath. “I’ve finally found it.”
“Found what?” asked Primo. “Calm down.”
“Our engine,” Marco replied, sitting down on an old crate. “It’s perfect. We just need to get it out of the chassis.”
“You said the same thing last week,” Severino complained in jest, “and it turned out to be junk.”
“What did you find?”
I sensed a deep excitement in Marco and was eager to find out what he’d been up to. Lately, he’d disappear from the shop for long periods of time and when he returned he’d mostly keep to himself. Every time I asked what was wrong, he’d just smile and say, Anger is an expensive luxury Pietro.
I knew he and Carmella were not getting along very well. I’d been spending more and more time alone talking with Carmella and last time I saw her, she mentioned that Marco had upset her very much and that she’d broke off their engagement. I was starting to suspect that Marco had found out about Carmella and I.
“There’s a German Kubelwagen on this side of the Biferno before the road to Montagano.” Marco was obviously pleased with himself. “It’s perfect. We can scavenge it for parts.”
“Did you take a look at it this time?
“Like I said, it’s perfect,” said Marco. “Nothing wrong with it at all”
“How about the wheels?” Severino put his welding torch down. “ Can we use them?”
“Not so good. But maybe they’re just flat. I didn’t get a chance to really look at them.”
“What are we waiting for,” I asked eagerly. “Lets go check it out.”
Marco managed to borrow a truck so we could drive the few kilometers down the valley to the river. It wasn’t a long ride to the spot where he’d found the abandoned German vehicle.
We parked the truck on the outskirts of the field and walked the remaining short distance to where the kubblewagon sat abandoned.
“This time it looks like you’ve finally found something.” Severino had his head inside the engine block, checking out all the various parts of the engine. “The Nazi’s sure did have some sporty vehicles.”
“How are we going to get it out,” I asked. “It’s a big job.”
“No problema,” Marco dug into his tool bag and pulled out a large wrench. “Watch and learn.”
It took the four of us all day to get the engine out of that kubblewagon. After hours of sheer exertion we finally managed to get it ready to bring back to the shop with us.
“Perfect. Now we come back tomorrow with the truck, haul the engine out and drive it back to the workshop.” Marco started to put his tools away. “All in a day’s work.”
“What about the tires?” Primo wasn’t ready to stop working. “We need some good tires and this German rubber is excellent. Look at the tread!”
“We can check them out in morning when we come back for the engine.” I was tired and ready for a plate of Mamma Del Gobo’s pasta and a glass of Severino’s wine. “It’s getting late. We should head back.”
“I agree with Pietro. Lets get out of here. I’m starving. Mama’s gonna have a nice plate of pasta ready for us.” Severino took off his cap and wiped the grime off his forehead with a shop rag. “We’ve still got a few bottles of last year’s vintage in the cellar to drink.”
“They look fine. A little flat but that’s easy enough to fix.” Marco walked around the shell of the German kubblewagon, kicking the tires. “We’ll come back tomorrow with the right tools and salvage them. Primo is right. They’ll make perfect tires for the tractor. Maybe we can even salvage the transmission.”
“Va bene. Andiammo.” Primo picked up his tool-bag and started walking back to the village. “Let’s not keep mama waiting any longer. She gets upset if the pasta gets cold.”
We started walking back through the field and up towards the truck. The sun was starting to set behind the Cathedral, casting its protective aura over us.
After only a few meters walking away from the kubblewagon I heard an audible CLICK underneath of me.
“Shit. I don’t like the sound of that. Everyone STOP.” I stopped immediately, my heart pounding so fast I thought it was going to explode out of my chest. “I think we may have a bit of trouble here.”
“What?” Primo dropped his tool-bag. “What’s the matter?”
“You Ok Pietro?” Marco turned around, a look of concern on his face. “What happened?”
“I think he’s stepped on a land mine.” Severino took off his cap and scratched his head nervously. “I hope I’m wrong.”
“Damn. I never even thought of that,” groaned Marco. “I was so excited about the engine.”
“Everybody stay calm.” I gulped. “We’ve got to use our minds here or else we may never get out of here.”
“So much for that nice plate of pasta,” grumbled Primo. “I hope my hungry belly doesn’t trigger the bloody thing.”
“Where is it Pietro?”
“It’s underneath me,” I replied matter-of-factly. “But if it blows, it’s going to take out a couple of us.
“This whole field is probably booby-trapped.” Severino scanned the expanse of field we were walking in. “The German’s always dug in mines as a defense against the Canadesi.”
“What are we going to do?” Marco was noticeably getting nervous. “We could all die.”
“The Germans used an assortment of mines. It’s probably not a pot mine or a S-Mine, because it would have exploded already.” I reassured everybody. “Most likely it’s a Holzmine.”
“What does that mean?”
“Run! Fast!”
I ran across the field towards the truck, with Marco, Primo and Severino following in a sprint close behind, lugging their tool-bags.
Just as we made it halfway across the field there was a big explosion as the mine detonated, piercing the calm twilight of the evening with a reminder of a war that we were all trying so hard to forget.
Chapter Nineteen
With God as our Witness
Carmella was walking close to me as we made our way down the piazza, deep in conversation.
“That was a close call the other day. We could see the explosion all the way up here in the village.”
“I can’t believe we were so reckless. Marco had us all excited about that engine.”
“Marco has that effect on people.”
“What’s going on between the two of you?”
“I don’t want to talk about it. Come on. I want to show you something.”
Carmella took my hand and led me up the cobblestoned street towards the Cathedral of San Maria at the top of the village.
The Cathedral was built in the 12th century by the medieval Lord who ruled over the region and collected taxes from the villagers. Pope Saint Celestine V, who was born in the neighbouring village of Saint Angelo, encouraged the Lord to build the Cathedral to support the religious fervor that was sweeping across the region.
“Where are you taking me?” I hadn’t explored the old medieval cathedral since I arrived in Limosano. “Where are we going?”
Father D’Angello still held mass in the Cathedral, and was always trying to get me to come to one of his services. Every Sunday the ancient bell tower sent its song out across the hills, summoning people to prayer.
“There’s a secret spot I used to go as a kid to be alone and think.” Carmella pulled me eagerly up the steep cobblestones. “I want to show it to you.”
The view at the top of the village was breathtaking. The rolling hills and valleys of Molise reached out in all directions. Across the Biferno River to the south you could just make out the neighbouring village of Montagano.
Also visible was the shell of the kubblewagon and the small crater where I had triggered the land-mine a few days earlier.
Carmella guided me into the empty Cathedral. Father D’Angello left the doors unlocked just in case somebody wanted to come in to have a private conversation with God.
She took me over to a small cubbyhole in one of the corners of the church.
“You must’ve been a pretty small kid to fit in there,” I joked. “I can’t imagine you’d still fit in there.”
“I was a flexible child.”
“Very.”
“There’s something I want to tell you Peter.” Carmella whispered into my ear. “Something I wanted to tell you in private.”
“Sure. Anything. You can trust me.” The hairs on the back of my neck were standing up, like I was going to be hit by lightening. “I can keep a secret.”
Carmella leaned in close and kissed me hard on the lips, running her hand up my leg.
At first I was surprised, and resisted. But after a few seconds I kissed her back hard, enjoying the feeling of her moist lips on mine.
This was something I had dreamt about for the last few months and now it was really happening.
After a few seconds I pulled away, reluctantly.
“I’m not sure I know what that means.” I took her hand in mine. “This is a surprise,” I stammered. “ A nice surprise. But what about Marco?”
“I broke off my engagement with him,” she squeezed my hand. “I don’t love him anymore.”
“What?”
“I can’t marry him if I don’t love him.”
“Love is complicated Carmella.”
“I have feelings for you Peter,” she confessed. “You make my heart dance. You make me feel alive. I haven’t felt this way since I first met Marco.”
“What is Marco going to say? He’s going to kill me if he finds out.”
“I don’t care,” she cried. “Tell me you feel the same way about me. That your heart skips a beat every time you see me.
“I have feelings for you but I’m not sure what they are,” I replied honestly. “Marco is my friend. We’ve been through a lot together and I know how much he loves you.”
“It doesn’t matter. All that matters is that I’m with you.”
“You’re beautiful, beyond beauty.” I stammered. “I just can’t. I mean I want to. But Marco is a good friend.”
Carmella didn’t let me finish my sentence. She kissed me again, harder this time, as if to emphasize the full weight of her feelings towards me.
The taste of her lips, her tongue, were intoxicating. The feeling of her body pressed up against mine made me lose all sense of time. All I could think of was how much I wanted to make love to her right there, with God as our witness.
Little did we realize God wasn’t our only witness that afternoon.
Father D’Angello sat quietly in the shadows of the Cathedral, as Carmella and I took off our clothes, eager to unleash our love for one another.
Chapter Twenty
Aldo
Baldazzi did a good job looking after Marco and I in Rome that winter. We spent a lot of time inside the safe house going over tactics and following the news on the American attempts to drive the German forces out of Cassino.
Aldo, Moro and Rizi spent most of their time collecting intelligence information from the partisans stationed all throughout Rome. The information helped Baldazzi ensure the safe flow of goods, and services in and out of the city.
That winter, everybody was watching the action on the Gustav Line. This was the tactical German defense line that crossed Italy from the Mediterranean to the Adriatic. The line started just south of Rome, running east through the Liri Valley along the mountain rivers, with the Garigliano, Gari and Rapido Rivers adding to the defense of the southern sector.
South of Rome, the Nazi forces patrolled Route 6, the Rome-Naples highway, which ran along the Liri valley, between the Abruzzi and Aurunci mountains. This was also the best route back to Campobasso, and also where some of the fiercest fighting was taking place.
In retrospect, I don’t think Marco and I would have survived an attempt to traverse those treacherous mountain roads on our motorcycles, even dressed as Nazi officers. If the German patrols didn’t kill us, we surely would’ve been pegged off by an American sniper.
For all intents and purposes Marco and I were trapped in Rome that winter, waiting for the American and British soldiers to breach the Gustave Line and liberate Rome, making the highway to Campobasso safe again for travel.
The impressive Monte Cassino sat watch over the entrance to the Liri valley. This high mountain peak provided an excellent defensive position for the German forces. All the intelligence reports coming in from the surrounding areas indicated that the Nazis had dug their positions into the mountain, and were occupying the ancient Benedictine monastery perched high on top of the mountain as their control center.
Just as Don Alexandro had mentioned, we learned that the Allied forces planned to breach the Gustave Line through an amphibious hook around the German flank. There were rumors that this was going to be an advanced force on its way to liberate France.
The reports the men brought in on the Allied attacks at Cassino were not very promising. The Germans obviously maintained the more strategic position, and easily defended their position. The ascent up the mountain was littered with mines, making it extremely difficult and dangerous for the Allied forces to gain any ground.
These grim attempts to establish highland positions at Cassino dragged on well until mid-February. The only saving grace for the Allied forces was the landing of their rumored amphibious attack at the marshes of Anzio.
While taking the German forces completely by surprise, it resulted in the anticipated diversion of the Nazi forces from Cassino to defend the new breach in the Gustave Line at Anzio.
This beachhead assisted the Cassino front considerably. The resulting fighting at Anzio, however, quickly turned ugly. All the reports indicated that the German forces still maintained the upper hand, and that Allied casualties were mounting at an alarming rate.
The news was discouraging, and Baldazzi started to fret. Wondering whether the resistance should mount some kind of counter-attack within the city to distract the Germans.
“That’s crazy,” suggested Rizi. “They’ll crush us. We just don’t have the capacity to mount an effective strike on the Germans.”
“But if we can somehow breach the Gustav Line from the inside we could turn this war to our advantage,” insisted Baldazzi. “We need to do something. The news is not good.”
“Rizi is right,” I added. “The Germans will crush us. We can be more effective here organizing guerilla tactics. Supplying partisans with arms in other cities, like Milan, and supporting the Allied advances.”
“Maybe we should send some guerilla’s into the mountains,” urged Marco. “We could arm the monks and townspeople of Cassino. Give them some explosives to blow up the German positions.”
“That’s not going to do us any good.” Moro closed the door behind him and bolted it. “They’re not going to need the explosives.”
“What’s the latest news Moro?” Baldazzi put down the gun he was polishing. “Please tell me the Anzio force is inching closer to the city.”
“There’s good news and bad news,” replied Moro. “What do you want to hear first?”
Moro sat down. He looked exhausted. Lately he and Aldo had been running messages to relay stations throughout the city, and collecting intelligence reports.
“The good news,” said Marco. “I always like to start with optimism.”
“The good news is that the Allies are making ground at Cassino,” shared Moro. “I just received news that the Allies are bombing the monastery in advance of an attempt to storm the mountain. They’re dropping some pretty heavy stuff.”
“Are they crazy,” exclaimed Rizi. “Don’t they realize God is pissed-off enough already?”
“Reducing the monastery into rubble is just going to make taking the position more difficult,” I added. “When we were Ortona, some of the fiercest fighting was amongst the blown-up bits of buildings. Lots of good sniper positions and protection for shelling.”
“Word on the street is that the Allies are getting desperate,” explained Moro. “Bombing the monastery was a last resort. But considered essential to reduce the German positions and hopefully take out some of their artillery in the process.”
“If this is the good news, I shudder to think what the bad news is.” Baldazzi sat back in his chair. The stress was starting to show on his gaunt face. “Where’s Aldo?”
“That’s the bad news,” Moro gulped. “Aldo has been captured by a German patrol.”
“This is dire.” Baldazzi stood up and began to pace the room. “How long ago?”
“An hour at the most.”
“We’ve got to get out of here right away,” urged Rizi. “This place isn’t safe anymore. It’s only a matter of time before those Nazi pigs extract our location for Aldo.”
“Piano, piano. Not so fast.” Baldazzi motioned to Rizi to calm down. “We’ve got to maintain our heads here and not fly off the handle. That’s more dangerous. Aldo has the strength and stamina of youth. He’ll hold out for at least a couple of days, if they don’t kill him first.”
“Do we know where they’re keeping him,” asked Marco. “We could mount a jail-break- like in one of those American westerns.”
“Yea, a few outlaw paisanos against a well-armed Nazi military police outfit,” mocked Rizi. “I know who I’m betting on.”
“Marco and I managed to escape,” I reminded everybody. “We just need to time it right. It’s doable.”
“I’ve got a better idea.” Baldazzi looked at Marco and I, a wide smile forming on his face. “Get those Schutzstaffel uniforms you arrived here in. We’re going to get Aldo.”
Chapter Twenty-One
Father D’Angello
Severino sent Marco to the store to buy some cigarettes. They were busy in the shop putting together the last few pieces of the tractor’s engine and transmission that they had salvaged from the German kubblewagon.
After the close call with the land mine, Severino was convinced that we had a guardian Angel looking out for us. He was so inspired to get the tractor finished as soon as possible so that they could get it out for spring planting, that he was working day and night trying to connect all the new parts, and sending Marco out for supplies.
“Ciao Marco,” Nicollito was busy in the shop stocking shelves. “How’s the tractor project coming along?”
“Really well. We scavenged a engine and some tires from a German Kubelwagen last week. I just have to tweak the engine a bit and I think we’re going to be ready for spring planting.”
“Impressive.”
“All in a day’s work. “
“I haven’t seen Carmella lately. If you still want me to order anything special for your wedding, I’ve got to know soon,” Nicolitto wiped his hands on his apron. “Supply chain isn’t what it used to be. But it’s definitely getting better now that the war is over.”
“There’s not going to be a wedding anytime soon,” grumbled Marco. “At least not mine.”
“Cold feet?”
“Something like that,” Marco replied. “I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Sure whatever,” Nicolitto smiled. “What can I get for you then?”
“A pack of cigarettes.”
The door to the store opened and Father D’Angello made his way up to the counter where Marco was talking to Nicolitto.
“Marco. What a nice surprise,” beamed Father D’Angello. “I haven’t seen you at mass lately.”
“Been busy.”
“He’s got a broken heart Father,” offered Nicolitto. “A man with a broken heart is like a body without a soul.”
“We should talk Marco. I can help,” assured Father D’Angello. “Sometimes God has answers to problems that you never thought could ever be solved.”
“I don’t need blessings Father,” Marco sneered. “I need Carmella back. It’s simple.”
“You need the truth my son,”answered the priest matter of factly. “God can offer that to you.”
“La Madonna isn’t going to help me this time. “
“You’ll get over it Marco.” Nicolitto handed Marco the pack of cigarettes. “There are lots of beautiful women out there.”
“Speak for yourself old man.” Marco handed the shop keeper a few coins and opened the door to leave. “Maybe I should go back to Rome. Or Tuscany. The tuscan women are almost as beautiful as the Abruzzi.”
“Come and see me Marco,” pressed Father D’Angello. “We need to talk.”
“Ok Father. Once I get this damn tractor done I’ll pop by.” Marco shut the door behind him and made his way back down the piazza to the shop where Severino was waiting for him.
Chapter Twenty-Two
145 via Tasso
Baldazzi’s plan to save Aldo unfolded very quickly.
Moro learned that Aldo had been captured by a Nazi patrol, and brought to the Gestapo headquarters at 145 via Tasso. It was a nondescript building close to the train station.
It was also the center from where Herbert Kappler orchestrated his brutal occupation of Rome.
Baldazzi warned us about Kappler. He was the highest representative of Nazi Security Office in Rome, and answered directly to both the military governorship, under Luftwaffe Major General Kurt Mälzer, and the Supreme SS and Policy Leader in Italy, Karl Wolf.
Kappler's main responsibilities were to ensure the suppression of our resistance groups. This entailed rounding up Baldazzi’s men as enemies of the state, and executing them as an example.
He was also responsible for enforcing the Nazi’s anti-Jewish measures. This entailed conducting Jewish ghetto raids, and arranging their deportations north to extermination camps.
At the time, Marco and I had no idea how lucky we were to have escaped from the Nazi detention in Milan. Later I learned, together with the rest of the world, that Kappler had deported over ten thousand Jews from Rome to the death camps at Auschwitz. Of this number, only a small handful survived the ovens.
Baldazzi’s plan was to send Marco and I into 145 via Tasso dressed in the uniforms of the two SS Officers we killed that day many weeks ago coming into Rome.
We were to sign Aldo out of detention under the pretense that Kappler had requested a personal interrogation. Once we had him, we were to make a beeline back to Trestevere.
Baldazzi was convinced that we could pull it off. I wasn’t.
I didn’t speak a word of German, and my Italian accent was as bad as my French. I was a prairie farmer from Saskatchewan and totally out of my league.
Secondly, Marco looked as much German as I looked Italian. And, although his Italian obviously was impeccable, his German was less to be desired.
“C’mon Pietro, where’s your sense of adventure. We’ll speak Italian to them. The Germans are very conscious of rank, so they won’t question us at all.” Marco was just as convinced as Baldazzi that we could rescue Aldo without a hitch. “And besides, you look a lot more Aryan than me, with your blonde hair and blue eyes. They’ll never suspect us. Just let me do the talking.”
So the plan was set in motion.
Baldazzi recruited quite a few Carabinieri to support the resistance since the Nazi occupation of the city. They knew Rome like the back of their hands, and were aware of all the back-streets and best ways to approach the Gestapo Headquarters at 145 via Tasso.
With their help, it didn’t take us long to navigate our way through the maze of alleys and narrow cobblestone streets.
“Ok, now you two are on your own.” Giuseppe was our Carabinieri guide. “This is as far as I go.”
We were on the outskirts of a small park.
“Just follow this road to Piazza Dante, and turn right onto Tasso. It’s not far,” Giuseppe reassured us. “You’ll know when you’re there. It’s pretty hard to miss the Nazi propaganda, and the screams of the prisoners. I’ll wait here for you.”
We followed his instructions, and made our way down to the quiet and serene Piazza Dante and turned right onto via Tasso. We seemed to blend in perfectly. The few people we met, avoided our gaze completely, and hurried along their way, hoping that we weren’t going to drag them into Gestapo headquarters for questioning.
Just as Giuseppe told us, 145 via Tasso was hard to miss. The red and black Nazi flags flying outside, contrasted sharply with the large yellow stucco building.
Baldazzi gave us papers, just in case. He altered the ID’s of the officers we killed with our pictures.
I was Second Lieutenant Johan Klier, and Marco was Captain Bruno Beger.
“Only use these in a dire circumstance,” he warned us. “Because you never know if they guy looking at the papers was a friend of these guys. And by this time, I’m sure they’ve found their dead comrades rotting naked by the side of the road.”
We had no problems getting inside the building. When the guards at the front entrance saw us, they immediately stood at attention, delivering crisp, well-practiced salutes.
Inside the building, there was an eerie silence that reeked of fear.
We followed the steps into the main reception area, where a young soldier sat behind a desk. His uniform neatly creased, and the pile of files on his desk stacked perfectly.
When he noticed us enter the room, he extended his arm in a casual salute.
“We’re here for the prisoner, Aldo Palumbo.” Marco wasted no time. “Kappler requested a personal interrogation at his quarters.”
“That’s odd.” The Soldier looked at us puzzled. “He didn’t mention anything to me when he left ten minutes ago.”
“That’s why we’re here,” replied Marco with just enough force to make the soldier remember he was the clerk and Marco was the officer. “We don’t want to keep the Captain waiting any longer than necessary. The longer you sit there looking at me, the more havoc the resistance causes. This prisoner has vital information and we need to get it.”
“Yes sir. I totally understand. I don’t want to make the Captain wait.” The soldier got up and grabbed a file. “Come with me. The prisoner has just been moved, on the Captain’s order, to solitary confinement.”
We followed the soldier deep into the belly of 145 via Tasso. It was a beautiful old building. The plaster walls were covered in brightly painted frescos, some rooms had expansive vaulted ceiling, and the checkered floors were polished to a perfect shine.
The beauty of the building, however, was juxtaposed by the muffled screams of terror that seemed to reverberate from the walls, and the menacing sound of our boots echoing down the hallways.
Our intelligence indicated that there were at least fifty Gestapo agents living in the building. These were the torturers. The barbarians. The sick and twisted minds that were trained to extract information from the most unwilling of prisoners.
Their interrogation methods included such things as repeated dunking in a bathtub filled with ice-cold water; high voltage electric shocks to the hands, feet, ears and genitalia; the use of a special Nazi designed vice to crush a man's testicles; hanging prisoners by the wrists to slowly dislocate their shoulders; brutal beatings with rubber nightsticks and cow-hide whips; and slowly burning the flesh with matches or a soldering iron.
Neither Marco nor I wanted to think of the damage the Gestapo agents might have already inflicted on Aldo. So we wasted no time getting him out of there.
After a few minutes, we stopped at what appeared to be a cell. The guard stationed in front of the door looked bored, but serious.
“We’re here to move the prisoner,” the soldier informed the guard. “Open the door.”
“On whose order,” asked the guard sternly. “I don’t just open cell doors.”
“Captain Kappler,” Marco shot back with force. ”He sent us to retrieve the prisoner for personal interrogation.”
“That’s odd, the Captain was just here only fifteen minutes ago,” replied the guard. “His orders to me were, at all cost, keep the prisoner secured in his cell.”
“Well I guess that settles it then.” The soldier tucked the file under his arm. “We don’t want to disobey a direct order.”
“You are disobeying a direct order,” asserted Marco. “We’re here to retrieve the prisoner for the Captain. Now open the door.”
The Guard paused, scrutinizing us closely.
“Let me see your papers,” he requested. “It’s my ass that’ll be whipped if anything goes wrong. I’m sure you understand.”
“Absolutely.” Marco dug into the pocket of his uniform and handed over the fake papers Baldazzi had forged. “You’re doing a good job soldier.”
I followed Marco’s lead and handed over my papers as well.
The guard studied them carefully. Looking closely at the pictures.
“Do I know you Captain?” He handed the papers back. “You’re name sounds so familiar. But I can’t quite place your face.”
“I’m new here,” replied Marco. “Brought in to help Kappler build up security. The resistance is getting stronger and with the enemy is knocking on the gates to Rome. We can’t take any chances.”
“Your friend here is pretty quiet.” The guard looked at me inquisitively. “Doesn’t speak much does he.”
“My Second Lieutenant is better at getting people to speak,” Marco joked. “He’s a man of few words.”
“I hope you won’t tell Captain Kappler about all this.” The guard produced a large set of keys and unlocked the door. “He’s got a pretty bad temper, and I like to stay on the good side of that.”
“It’ll be our little secret,” promised Marco. “All Kappler needs to know is that he’s got some good reliable men working for him.”
We followed the guard into Aldo’s cell. He looked beat up, but for the most part unscathed. At first he didn’t recognize us, and he spat at Marco.
“Nazi pig,” he taunted. “You’ll never get an ounce of information from me. You might as well just kill me.”
“Make sure he’s secured,” Marco ignored Aldo’s taunt. “These Italians are feisty.”
“Yes Captain.” The guard slapped a pair of handcuffs onto Aldo, and handed Marco the key. “This one has been especially difficult since he was brought in.”
At that moment I could it register in Aldo’s eyes. He relaxed completely, as I led him out of the cell and into the hall.
“We can take it from here.” Marco extended his arm in a salute. “Thank you for your cooperation.”
We followed the clerk back down the hall and out of the building with Aldo as our fake prisoner. All the time I tried my hardest not to smile.
Back on via Tasso, we bumped into a tall officer getting out of a car. He extended his arm in a salute. But was obviously puzzled.
“Where are you taking my prisoner,” he demanded. “I gave the guard strict orders that he wasn’t to be taken anywhere.”
I instantly recognized him from the pictures Moro had brought into the safe house one night. It was Kappler in the flesh.
Marco looked at me and than back to Aldo, and uttered one word.
“Run!”
Luckily for us Giuseppe was still waiting in the park. After a heart-stopping chase and an exchange of gunfire, we finally managed to shake Kappler and his men deep in the maze of the ancient city
Chapter Twenty-Three
Finito
“Here are your smokes,” Marco came back into the shop and threw the pack of cigarettes at Severino. “Bloody priest thinks he can save my soul. I don’t think he realizes that it’s not my soul that’s broken.”
“Not the first time old Father D’Angello thinks he can save one of the Delgobo boys.” Severino took a fresh cigarette out and lit it. “Remember that time when Primo and I stole the communion wine?”
“Yea, pop almost killed you two,” Marco almost laughed. “Father D’Angello actually did save you that time.”
“What’s really wrong Marco?” I had noticed that Marco had been acting very solemn lately. Worried that maybe he had found out that Carmella and I were sleeping with each other. “You’ve been really quite lately. Not your normal self.”
“It’s nothing Pietro.” Marco avoided looking at me. “Just stressed out a bit about getting this tractor done for spring planting. We need to make some money.”
“C’mon. You can’t fool me. Confess.” I pressed. “I know something has been really bothering you lately. It’s written all over your face.:”
“Carmella broke off our engagement and she won’t talk to me,” Marco blurted. “There now you know.”
“That’s rough,” I shifted uncomfortably, the palms of my hands sweaty all of a sudden. “Why did she break it off? I thought you were playing it slow.”
“Ma! I’m too upset to even think about it,” Marco exclaimed. “Can we talk about something else?” Marco busied himself with the tractor, splicing wire’s together on the dashboard, trying to connect the starter.
“I totally understand.”
“She’ll come around fratello,” Severino took a long haul from his cigarette. “She’s just got the jitters is all. Women are moody - like the weather, first it’s sunny, than it rains, then it’s sunny again.”
“I even went to see La Stregha Vechia,” Marco confessed. “Can you believe it?”
“Who’s that?” I asked. Unaware that this witch would play an increasingly complex role in my life over the next few months.
“An old woman in San’Angelo. Everyone thinks she’s a witch, like she has these special powers.,” Marco explained. “She told me Carmella is in love with another man! Oh Ma! Que vita! I didn’t believe the witch at first. But now I see that she’s right. Why else would Carmella break off the engagement. She was so excited about it. When I find out who it is, I’m going to kill him.”
“Really?” I didn’t like where the conversation was going. I knew how much Marco loved Carmella, and how far he’d go in proving that to her. “How can you believe that stuff? It’s all superstition.”
“Varimente. amico,” Marco continued, “I put the evil eye on him. The witch told me that the evil eye would curse him so that Carmella wouldn’t love him anymore. She told me I’d be able to tell who it was by all the bad stuff that would start happening to him.”
“That’s a bit drastic isn’t it?” I never really got used to Italian superstitions. They seemed so archaic. But I learned to respect them, if not fully believe in them. “I mean bad stuff happens all the time. Look at us. We almost got killed by a land-mine a couple of weeks ago.”
“If you loved Carmella as much as I do, you’d understand my friend,” confided Marco. “It’s something deep inside of me - like I’ve given her a piece of my heart, my soul, my future. Have you never loved a woman like this before Pietro?”
“I guess I haven’t,” I lied. “It sounds brutal.”
“Maybe she’ll tell you who he is Pietro,” piped Severino between drags on his cigarette. “Carmella trusts you. She’ll tell you anything. You two seem to be spending a lot more time together lately.”
“Maybe she would,” I croaked. “But don’t count on it.”
“Ah it doesn’t matter.” Marco finished connecting the ignition switch on the tractor. “Finto! Done. Here we go, the moment we’ve all been waiting for.”
“Lets see if this engine has any juice in it.”
The pistons let off a brief whirr and gurgle, and then the motor started purring loudly.
“Good old German engineering.”
“I knew we could do it.” Marco gave me a big hug. “We’re a good team you and I. Severino go get Primo. He’s going to be really excited!”
Chapter Twenty-Four
The Ardeatine Caves
We were buoyed by our close call with Kappler. Aldo couldn’t believe we’d been so cheeky to walk right into Gestapo headquarters like that and rescue him. Running into Kappler was just the icing on the cake. The perfect way to flaunt the strength of will and character of the resistance.
When we arrived back in Trestevere, I could tell that Baldazzi was relieved, even though he played it cool.
“Good work, I knew you guys could pull this off.” He patted Marco and I on the back. “I hope you killed at least one of those fascist pigs.”
Aldo relayed the whole story, including our daring escape from Kappler and his men through the back alleys of the city.
“Good thing for Giuseppe.” Aldo marked. “Otherwise Kappler would’ve caught us for sure.”
“I wonder if those Nazi rats found their way out of the maze.” Marco laughed. “It felt good to shake them up like that.”
“I don’t think I’d do it again.” The adrenalin from the day’s event was starting to wear off, and the realty of how dangerous Aldo’s escape had been was starting to sink in. “Not without a unit of men, and a lot of ammo, to back me up.”
Aldo reassured everybody that he hadn’t given the Gestapo agents any information.
“You arrived just in time,” he told us. “Kappler was returning to interrogate me himself. Let me tell you, I wasn’t looking forward to that. A lot of good men are dying in there by horrible means. I can still hear them screaming in pain.”
That spring we spent a lot of time canvasing the streets of Rome at night with Baldazzi’s men. We were helping to organize the resistance in anticipation of the Allied advance at Cassino and Anzio. This was dangerous work because if German patrols saw us talking to anyone they would’ve killed us on the spot.
Some of the men in the resistance, however, were starting to get impatient. They felt that not enough was being done to combat the Nazi force in the city.
“We need to organize a guerilla campaign in the city,” asserted Moro. “People are losing hope. We need to remind the Nazi’s who the real Romans are.”
“I agree with Moro,” added Rizi, “Collecting intelligence is important, but it’s not enough. We need to take back control of the city.”
“We’ve noticed a German police patrol routinely marching through central Rome on Via Rasella, every other day.” Aldo pointed to the spot on the map that was laid out on the table. “We could attack them with an improvised bomb. That would send a clear message to Kappler and his fascist comrades.”
“You raise some good points.” Baldazzi was thinking ahead, like he always did, trying to map out the potential ramifications of an attack like that. He was a good strategist, which meant that I never could beat him at chess on those long days when we were stuck inside the apartment. “But it could piss Kappler off to the point of making him do something rash.”
“What more could he do,” asked Marco. “He’s deporting more Jews every day. He routinely kills and tortures innocent civilians. He’s an animal. And these German police officers are fascist traitors anyways. They don’t deserve to be here in this beautiful city.”
The target was the Bozen Police Battalion. This was a group of German-speaking natives of the northern Italian province of Bolzano-Bozen. Many of these officers were veterans of the Italian Army and, instead of serving another tour in Russia, they opted to serve in the Nazi’s roman police force.
“I won’t have anything to do with it.” I thought the idea was crazy. Fighting defensively was one thing, but setting off bombs in the city sounded crazy. “There’s got to be a better way to send a message of hope to the people of Rome.”
“Who are you the Pope,” teased Aldo. “Nobody said you had to participate Canadese. You’ve proved yourself already.”
“Ok, get some men together and let’s see if we can come up with a plan,” concluded Baldazzi. “Now, who wants to play chess?”
Rizi, Moro and Aldo didn’t waste any time. They put together a group of thirteen other men, including Marco. In a matter of a few weeks, and after a series of secret meetings, a plan was hatched.
An improvised explosive device was built consisting of a large quantity of TNT packed into a steel case. This was inserted into a bag containing an additional quantity of explosives and iron tubing.
This homemade bomb was then hidden in a garbage can that was pushed into position by Marco who was disguised as a street cleaner. Moro and Rizi acted as lookouts. Marco lit the fuse when he was given the signal that the police were forty seconds away from the bomb.
The bomb killed all twenty-eight of the police officers, and at least two Italian civilians. Luckily Marco escaped unscathed. The other three men weren’t so lucky.
In the chaos preceding the explosion, Aldo, Rizi and Moro were captured by German forces and detained for questioning.
Over the next few days, Kappler responded to the attack and decreed that Romans were all collectively responsible for the deaths of the twenty-eight police offices, and that his response would be a massive retaliation.
Ever true to his word, at the end of March Kappler rounded up over three hundred Italian hostages-including civilians, Italian prisoners of war, captured partisans and inmates from Roman prisons.
We later learned that Aldo was one of these hostages. Moro and Rizi were condemned to suffer an equally brutal fate, to burn in the ovens of Auschwitz.
Aldo was taken with the reset of the victims to one of the rural suburbs of the city. The SS officers lined them up inside the tunnels of the disused quarries of pozzolana, near the Via Ardeatina. And in groups of five they were executed. The massacre took almost a whole day.
Later at Kappler’s war trial in Rome, we heard that many of the victims were forced to kneel down on the dead bodies of the previous victims as the Ardeatine caves filled up with dead bodies.
Some of the victims' heads were blown off by their executioners. Many of the victims were only wounded and survived until the massive explosion intended to seal the caves killed them. One young man was discovered in his father’s arms in a corner of one of the caves. While others crawled into their own corners to die what must have been a slow painful death.
That’s how Marco and I found Aldo. After the Allies liberated Rome, we joined a large group of civilians and allied soldiers to exhume the bodies and give them a proper burial.
“I feel responsible for the deaths of all these men.” Marco confided in me the night after we helped Baldazzi give Aldo a proper burial. “I never should have planted the bomb. You were right Pietro. There’s got to be a better way to send a message of hope to the people of Rome.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
Counter Magic
After Primo arrived at the shop to celebrate the success of our engine actually working, I politely excused myself and went to look for Carmella. I found her leaving Nicolitto’s with an armload of groceries for dinner.
“Pietro,” she exclaimed, obviously happy to see me. “What a pleasant surprise. Are you coming over for dinner?”
I took the groceries from Carmella and we made our way down the piazza towards her house.
“He went to see the witch in San’Angelo,” I tried to laugh it off. “He’s desperate. How are we ever going to tell him now? He’ll never forgive either of us.”
“La Stregha Vechia?” Carmella stopped and looked at me very seriously. “The old woman in San’Angelo?”
“That’s what he told me,” I replied calmly. “He’s seen her a few times. I was starting to wonder where he’d been going. There were a couple of days when nobody knew where Marco was. And he’d been acting all secretive and strange.”
We started walking again down the cobblestones.
“What did he go see La Stregha Vechia for?” asked Carmella. “Did he tell you?”
“To find out the name of the man you secretly love.”
“Mama mia! You’re kidding me?” Carmella wasn’t laughing. “Please tell me this is a joke.”
“It’s not. I’m being completely serious”
“What did she say?”
“Nothing,” I replied. “But she put the evil eye on him. Can you believe that? What a load of nonsense.”
“Dio mio! Oh no. This is not good,” Carmella fretted with obvious concern. “She’s a very powerful witch Pietro.”
“You don’t believe in all that folk magic stuff do you?” I chuckled. “I mean it’s all nonsense really.”
“Of course I do! This is very serious. You could be in a lot of trouble.”
“Uh-oh,” I muttered unconvincingly. “I survive prolonged combat with German Special Forces, trek all across Italy, help to liberate Rome only to die in a small village by the evil eye. What are you going to write on my gravestone?”
“You’re coming home with me right now to talk to my mother.” Carmella grabbed my hand and pulled me down the cobblestones towards her house. “We need to apply some counter magic.”
The Moccia’s two-story house was similar to the rest of the houses in the village. Built out of stone, it was cool in the summer and well insulated in the winter. Behind the house was a small stable, where the pigs and chickens were kept and where Carmella’s mother dried all of the herbs and roots she used for cooking and curing. Upstairs there was the kitchen, with the wood-fired oven, which also helped to heat the house in the winter. There was also the living room and two bedrooms. The little porch on the second floor had a small fountain, where Carmella’s mother kept some pet fish.
“Mama, quick. Marco has cast the evil eye on Pietro.” Carmella wasted no time. “He’s been to San’Angelo to see La Stregha Vechia.”
Mama Moccia came out of the kitchen with a large deep bowl filled with water. She sat down and set the bowl on the table in front of her, placing one drop of olive oil into it.
After peering intensely into the bowl, she finally lifted her head up and looked directly at me.
“Her magic is very strong,” she said. “You’re in grave danger.”
“What do you see Ma?” Carmella pressed eagerly. “Tell us.”
“It’s the malocchio,” she replied. “A very potent one too.”
“C’mon. There’s no such thing.” Little did I realize at that time how much power the evil eye had on the consciousness of Italians. And how real it could actually be. “I’m having a hard time believing all this witchy stuff.”
“Don’t mess with this stuff young man,” Mama Moccia chided me gently. “Faustina Vechia has a reputation for dark magic. She’s a powerful witch.”
“Can’t you do something?” wondered Carmella. “Can you give him an amulet or break the spell.”
“I’ll try. Come. Sit.”
Carmella’s mother gestured to me to sit down on the ground in front of her. She produced a small leather bag from a belt she wore around her waist and began throwing pinches of salt around me.
“The Eye walks and then runs,” she started chanting rhythmically under her breath while throwing salt over my shoulder. “It has seen its brother, he is good, he is lovely; It has begun to devour his flesh without a knife. To drink his blood without a cup. It is the eye of a lover that has seen him, the eye of a witch, the eye of the gate-keeper. The eye of a gate-keeper, to the gate-keeper let it return! The eye of the witch, let it return, the eye of the lover, let it return!”
She took a small red kerchief from her bodice and spat into it, emphasizing the last sentence. Then she genuflected and quietly left the room.
I looked at Carmella who motioned me to be still and to take the ritual seriously. After a few seconds Mamma Moccia returned with something in her hand.
“You can get up now,” she told me. “I have done what I can.”
“I don’t feel any different,” I offered. “Shouldn’t I feel a dark cloud lifting or something?”
“Don’t take this off.” Carmella’s mother handed me a small cimaruta. Carved on the three branches of the small wooden charm were a fish, a crescent moon, a closed hand and a key. “It will protect you until you get stronger.”
Carmella took the amulet from me and placed it around my neck.
“Now, You need to tell him.” Mama Moccia looked at Carmella and then at me. “It’s the only way to break the spell for good.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
Liberation Day
In the end, Liberation Day unfolded really fast.
One morning, as Baldazzi and I we were drinking our coffee over a game of chess, Marco rushed into the apartment with the news.
At that point everything changed.
“They did it!” Marco reported excitedly. “They did it! I can’t believe it. Mama Mia!”
“Calm down,” asserted Baldazzi. “Did what? Who? What the hell are you talking about Marco?”
“They finally broke through the Gustave Line,” Marco gasped enthusiastically, unable to calm down. “The Americans are on their way to Rome. German units are already starting to flood into the city.”
This is it,” I exclaimed. “This is what we’ve been waiting for.”
“All our men are in place and ready to act.” Baldazzi was calm. Nothing seemed to faze him. “Once I say the word they’ll be out there killing German’s alongside the Americans.”
“Excellent. Today may be the last day we see each other.” Marco grabbed a rifle and loaded it with some ammo. He also grabbed a Beretta pistol off the table and checked the clip.
“Arm yourselves well comrades.” Baldazzi recommended. “Take lots of ammo. We may not be coming back.”
It was June 4, 1944. The members of the American 5th Army and the British First Special Service Force, commanded by Brigadier General Robert T. Federick rolled in to the centre of Rome late during the night from the south. The battle scars of their tanks, and the weary contentedness of the soldiers stood in sharp juxtaposition to the jubilation of the Roman people and the ancient ruins of the city’s past.
The Allied soldiers met a dogged resistance from German forces on the outskirts of the city. After already suffering major casualties at Casino and Anzio, however, the German forces couldn’t hold the city under the protracted strikes by allied forces.
Baldazzi stationed Marco and I deep within the line of the resistance near the ancient Ponte Cestio. This bridge was built in 27 B.C, to link the island to the right bank of the Tiber River. It also provided a strategic connection between the district of Trastevere, where we had been living with Baldazzi’s resistance, and Tiber Island. Baldazzi had stashed a significant amount of arms and ammo on the Island in anticipation of the Allied liberation.
When we got the word out that Allied forces had taken the Gustav Line we knew that it was only a matter of time before we were going to have to make our contribution to the effort.
Marco and I both understood that the fighting was going to be fierce and that we could easily die in action. While I had seen significantly more action, Marco was eager to serve his country.
“I haven’t killed anyone during this war Pietro, accept those twenty-eight police officers” he told me as we made our way over to the Island early on the morning of the liberation. “How can I go home to Carmella as a hero when I haven’t even shot my rifle in battle.”
“Heroes come in all sizes and shapes,” I said. “Fighting can get really nasty. I’ve seen guys lying on the ground like pretzels, their guts trailing in a long messy line behind them. I’ve seen good men shot dead in mid-sentence, or dismembered completely by a land mine, screaming in agony as they take one last bullet to the head. Dodging bullets isn’t a skill. It’s luck. Too many good men have died in this war. So count yourself lucky my friend. You’re a hero because you’ll live to tell this tale of escape from the Nazis to your grandchildren.”
The bridges across the Tiber River were the strategic gateway into the eternal city. Tiber Island was the perfect position. While the allied Armoured Division pounded German positions with artillery fire, we supported the ground troops and special forces in securing the main bridges over into the city’s centre.
After a fierce battle, Hitler finally ordered a retreat north-west of the city, vowing that “the struggle in Italy will be continued with unshakable determination with the aim of breaking the enemy attacks and to forge final victory for Germany and her allies.”
Italians, however, were not phased by Hitler’s resolve. They lined up in the ancient streets of Rome welcoming the American soldiers into the centre of the city. Bouquets of flowers littered the cobblestones, as Romans, finally felt safe to emerge from their homes, praising God’s grace that the Nazis had finally be driven from their beloved city. That after twenty-one years of fascism, a sense of freedom could once again be restored. Of course this wasn’t the first time the city had been liberated from a hostile occupation. And I’m sure it won’t be the last.
Marco convinced me to join the huge crowd in St. Peter’s square to hear the Pope.
“C’mon Pietro,” he urged me. “We’re heroes! Let’s go join the party. This may be the only time we’ll ever get a chance to hear the Pope. ”
Thousands of people had gathered in St. Peter’s Square. Italian women hung off the arms of American soldiers. Bottles of wine were being passed around. People danced and sung out in praise of the Allied forces and Italian resistance. Women and men alike hugged and kissed us when they realized were part of Baldazzi’s group.
Eventually Pope Pius XII emerged on his balcony, his flowing white robes a symbol of the peace and freedom that was spreading throughout the city.
“In recent days we trembled for the fate of the city,” he addressed the crowd. His arms wide in a welcoming embrace. “Today we rejoiced because, thanks to the joint goodwill of both sides, Rome has been saved from the horrors of war. The Nazi’s are still in Italy, so there still hangs the evil fog of war. Amid the farms and the orchards, the flamethrowers still burn their terrible way to the northern plains. And that which the flamethrowers cannot burn out, must be burnt out by Italians themselves. And however long it may take, however many mistakes we have made, a good people can put right.”
Luckily the occupying German forces had left the infrastructure of Rome largely undamaged. The city’s water supply was still intact and there was even electricity. The major challenge lay in restoring political acumen and normal day-to-day functioning of the city. Many angry Romans were busy routing out remnant fascist supporters and those who’d helped the Nazis in their occupation.
Just before the Allies liberated the city, they dropped thousands of leaflets into the streets.
“Citizens of Rome,” the leaflets declared, “this is not the time for demonstrations. Obey these directions and go on with your regular work. Rome is yours! Your job is to save the city, ours is to destroy the enemy. “
“I can’t believe they dropped these.” Marco was reading one the leaflets. “It’s a pretty smart way to get a simple message out to a large group of people.”
“I doubt Baldazzi is going to follow the instructions not to demonstrate.” I remarked. “He’s going to try to hunt down all the remaining Nazi spies who killed Aldo, Rizi and Moro.”
“Off course. He’s an anarchist,” said Marco. “He’ll be busy for a while applying his own kind of justice. We really should get out of here while we still can. There’s going to be a lot reconstruction work to be done, and they’re going to need young strong men like ourselves to help out.”
“At least now we can be assured safe passage across the mountains.”
I was feeling eager to get out the city before the celebration party turned to chaos and hangings.
At first I had thought about joining back up with a Canadian regiment. But I was starting to really enjoy my freedom. And it wasn’t as if I was AWOL. For all intents and purposes, the Canadian military considered me dead in action.
“I’m going to miss this city,” Marco sighed. “I’ve really grown fond of it over the last few months.”
“Me too. The history here is mesmerizing.” I loved the layers of time in Rome. Everywhere you looked there was a reminder of how old the city really was. “And we haven’t even had a chance to really explore it.”
“Forget history amico,” laughed Marco. “It’s the all the beautiful women I’m going to miss! Especially now that we’re Heros.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Confessions
Marco made his way up to the Cathedral to find Father D’Angello. After telling Peter and his brothers about hiring the witch to cast the evil eye on Carmella’s lover he felt increasingly guilty. Like he murdered somebody in cold blood.
Listening to himself tell the story, made it sound completely ridiculous. He needed to spend some time in the confession booth to clear this one up.
What the hell was I thinking? As if I could make everything all right by using black magic? If Carmella ever found out she’d be even more upset at me. I’d never live this down. Once I'm done with Father D’Angello I’m going back to that La Stregha Vechia and I’m going to pay her to break this spell. Mamma Mia! What have I done?
Marco had no problem finding the priest in the old Cathedral.
“Forgive me father for I have sinned. It has been one month since my last confession.”
“God forgives all of his children.”
“I’ve paid La Stregha Vechia to cast the evil eye on somebody.”
“For what did this person do to you to deserve such punishment?”
“He stole the only woman I’ve ever loved from me.”
“How can you be sure of this?”
“Like I said to you a few days ago. Carmella broke off our engagement. She won’t talk to me. She won’t tell me anything. “
“Give her some space my child. No one will take the one who is destined for you. Even if it’s your best friend.”
“What are you saying Father?”
“I absolve you of your sins, in the name of the Father, Son and Holy Spirit. Go in peace my son.” Father D’Angello slid the confessional slot closed.
This can’t be true. Pietro would never do this to me. We’ve been through so much together. He, of anybody, knows how much I love Carmella. I’ll kill him!
Marco left the confessional noticeably upset.
I’m going to go to Carmella’s right now and find out the truth, once and for all.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Heartache
After Mama Moccia told us we needed to tell Marco, Carmella and I both agreed that it was the best plan. If we wanted to really honour these feelings for each other we needed to be honest with Marco. In reality, I could never have proposed to Carmella without telling Marco, especially after all we’d been through together. He was, after all, my best friend, and had saved my life on a few occasions.
I still think bumping into Marco that afternoon outside of Carmella’s house was all part Mama Moccia’s magic. I just never expected that it would work so fast.
“I can’t believe it’s you,” Marco yelled at me from down the street. “It was you all along. You stole the only woman I’ll ever really love. Why Pietro? After all we’ve been through I thought you were my friend.”
“Hey stop yelling. What are you talking about?” I acted dumb. I wasn’t ready to have this conversation. “Calm down Marco.”
“It’s you. It’s you who Carmella loves,” Marco cried as he got closer to me. “It’s you who I tried to kill.”
“Let’s talk about this somewhere else,” I suggested. “Like adults. We’ll figure this out.”
“There’s nothing to talk about. We’re finished,” Marco exclaimed. “I never want to see you ever again. I can’t believe you’d steal the only woman I’ve ever loved. There’s nothing. Nothing left for me.”
At that point, Carmella came out of her house to see what the yelling was all about.
“Marco, you have to calm down,” pressed Carmella. “You’re making a scene. What is everybody going to think?”
“I will not calm down.”
Marco threw the first punch that afternoon.
“I don’t want to fight you,” I grabbed his arm. “You’re my friend. My best friend.”
“Not anymore. Friends don’t steal their best friend’s fiancé.”
“You never even proposed to me Marco,” cried Carmella. “So just forget about all this. Go home. Sleep it off.”
“That’s because you never gave me the chance,” Marco spat. “You never gave me a chance to show you how much I loved you.”
“Do you even have a ring?” Carmella wasn’t backing down. “How can you expect to propose to a girl without a ring?”
“You’re right. I don’t have a ring. Not yet. But I was going to get one,” Marco proclaimed. “I was going to go into Campobasso next week.”
“I’m sure we can all be friends.” I extended the olive branch. “And work this all out over coffee.”
“Never.”
Marco threw the second punch of the afternoon. This time I wasn’t so lucky. It landed square on the left side of my jaw, knocking me down to the ground.
“You’re not giving me much of a choice,” I mumbled through the pain. “Hitting me in front of a woman like that.”
I managed to get up quickly and rush at Marco, grabbing him with one hand and slamming my fist into his gut with the other.
“BASTA!! STOP! Stop!” Carmella pleaded. “I will not allow you to hurt him.”
But Marco and I were too far-gone. This was now a matter of principle.
“Mamma Mia!”
Carmella’s mother ran down the stairs of her house and stood in-between Marco and I, just as Father D’Angello arrived to see what all the noise was about.
“There’s only one way this is going to get settled,” proclaimed Mama Moccia. “You two will dance the Tarantella.”
“I won’t allow it.” Father D’Angello crossed his arms and shook his head. “That is not how we do things around here anymore.”
“It’s not up to you Father,” insisted Mama Moccia. “Marco and Pietro are too far gone for any other kind of intervention. The spirits must decide now.”
“Mama - no!” Stammered Carmella. “It’s too dangerous.”
“It’s the only way,” replied Mamma Moccia. “We need to settle this once and for all. It has gone too far already.”
Marco dusted himself off and straightened out his clothes. He looked at Carmella and then at me.
“I’ll agree if Peter does,” he finally said. “I’m not afraid.”
“Peter don’t! I beg you!” Insisted Carmella. “It’s too dangerous.”
“This is pagan sacrilege!” Jeered the Priest. “It’s the devil’s work.”
“I don’t understand what’s going on.” I had no idea what Mama Moccia was proposing and why Carmella was so upset about it. “Can somebody explain to me what the Tarantella is?”
“Then it’s agreed,” announced Mama Moccia. “On the next new moon Peter and Marco will dance the Tarantella. The last man standing wins the hand of my daughter.”
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Close to Home
As much as Marco and I were both eager to leave Rome after the American’s rolled in, we stayed in until the late summer, helping Baldazzi and his men with the transition.
One day, out of the blue, Marco decided that he’d had enough of Rome.
“It’s time to go.” He said matter of factly. “I’m ready to go home to Limosano. I miss my family. I don’t want Carmella to think I’m dead. She’ll marry one of my brothers and then I might as well be dead.”
After saying our goodbyes and tracking down enough supplies and gas for our two German BWM motorcycles we made our way out of the Eternal City.
It took us the better part of the day to drive from Rome to Campobasso. The scars of the war were evident all across the landscape. The once fertile foothills were now a scorched wasteland, littered with the bombed-out debris of battle. The stench of death and fear still lingered in the air like an unwelcome visitor.
Marco and I rode quietly, guiding our motorcycles through the mountain roads, and reflecting to ourselves on the devastation of the war. It was a reminder of how blessed we both were to be still alive and looking forward to returning back to something. Marco to his sweet Carmella in Limosano. And I to my Canadian comrades in Campobasso.
Since driving the Nazi occupation north, the Canadian forces had established a semi-permanent presence in Campobasso, to the extent that the city was gaining the reputation as “Canada town” or “Maple Leaf City.”
Campobasso is the capital of the Molise Region, and known as one of the colder cities in the southern parts of Italy. It sits high in the Apennines, with the imposing 15th century Castello Monforte with its six towers looking out protectively over the old medieval city that cascades down the steep hill.
Next to the castle is the Chiesa della Madonna del Monte, Santa Maria Maggiore. The church was originally built in the 11th century and rebuilt in 1525 and again in 1815 after a serious earthquake destroyed much of the original structure. It houses a precious relic of the Incoronata that dates back to 1334.
At the foot of the Castle and the Chiesa, is the Church of St. George built in the 1st century over the ruins of an ancient Samnite temple.
Campobasso’s history has its beginning thousand of years ago as a village that sat at the intersection of three important tratturi, the ancient trails used by Samnite warrior-shepherds, traders and others moving through the Appenine mountains. Eventually the Romans defeated the Samnites, establishing control of the Matese-Cortile, the most important of the tratturi, and eventually bringing their Christian religion and traditions to the area.
After all those years Campobasso still maintained its strategic position. In the fall of 1943 capturing the city became the divisional objective of the First Canadian Infantry.
I remember that fall, as we fought our way north after landing from Sicily. Campobasso was “the wedding cake” of Central Italy. The prize we were all aiming for.
During those long, hard days marching north, there were all kinds of rumours amongst the men that, like some kind of medieval King, the Nazi General Kesselring, who was largely responsible for the Italian occupation, had established his main headquarters in the Castello Monforte.
Campobasso was also the strategic crossroads in the Daunia Mountains, and its capture by the Allies was considered to be of some considerable urgency.
By capturing the city, the entire Allied Force in Italy no longer would have to use the roads of the Foggia plains, some hundred of kilometers to the south as transverse routes to engage the German’s winter line. And, we’d also serve a direct blow to the Nazi’s main chain of command.
It had been less than a year since I had fought my way through Campobasso on that slow trip through hell that was to be Ortona, but it felt like a lifetime.
Driving those mountain roads with Marco, I felt and increasing eagerness to meet up with my fellow Canadian forces. But it was bittersweet leaving Marco. We’d established such a deep connection over the last few months. I felt like I was losing not just a friend, but a brother.
Instead of driving into Campobasso right away, Marco convinced me to meet his family in Limosano.
“It’s not far Pietro.” He motioned with his hands. “Half an hour or less if we open these bikes up.”
“I’m not sure it’s such a good idea.” I was reluctant to drive too far outside of Campobasso, just in case we were stopped by a Canadian patrol. We were driving Nazi Officer issue motorcycles after all. “What if we get stopped - or worse, shot at. After all this time - it’d be a shame to be killed so close to home.”
“Oh Ma, don’t be such a baby,” joked Marco sarcastically. “I want you to see Limosano, to meet Carmella and my brothers.”
“Ok, but I can’t stay long,” I replied hesitantly. “I don’t want to end up having to fight off a couple of burly and sullen MPs.”
The trip to Limosano from Campobasso was short. It took us about a half an hour. The road, descending gently towards the Adriatic, was flanked on one side by the Biferno River. In the distance old medieval villages dotted the hillsides, keeping silent vigil over the tired battled-scared fields.
I followed Marco onto a small narrow, and winding road, that immediately started to ascend steeply into the hillside. The German BMW motorcycles didn’t show any strain from our long journey from Rome. They responded eagerly as we made our way up the twisting mountain road, past the cypress trees marking the cemetery, and on towards the village.
Marco stopped his motorcycle just outside the village.
“I can’t believe we made it.” There was a silent tear in his eye. “I never thought I’d ever see my home ever again.”
“Here we are.” I was starting to feel the exhaustion of sitting on a motorcycle all day. “It looks like a really nice old medieval village Marco. Lots of history.”
“I don’t think I could’ve done it without you Pietro.”
“We were in it together.”
“Who ever would’ve thought that it would take five months to cross this country.” Marco wiped the tear from his eye. “I’ve seen a lifetime worth of things in such a short period.”
“I’m just glad we made it alive.”
“You’re my lucky charm Pietro,” Marco laughed. “I knew it from the first time I saw you in that Nazi cell in Milano.”
“I think I’m going to keep going while I still have some energy left,” I said. “I need to reconnect with my unit back in Campobasso. I’m sure they thought I died in the hell-fires of Ortona.”
“At least stay the night. Have a meal and recharge your batteries. My mama makes the best ravioli you’ll ever taste. Guaranteed.”
“It’s temping, but I really shouldn’t.” The thought of a home-cooked meal and a safe bed to sleep in was very appealing.
“C’mon. What’s one more day,” replied Marco enthusiastically. “Your unit isn’t going to miss you. Like you said - for all they know you’re dead.”
“I guess I could. But I really have to leave first thing in the morning.” Marco had convinced me to stay. Little did I realize that it wasn’t going to be just for one night.
“Hey what day is it?” Marco was distracted by something happening in the Village
“I pretty sure it’s August 17.” I had been keeping track of the time as best as I could. “But I could be wrong.”
“No, no. You’re right!” Marco was excited. “Today is the Feast of Our Lady. It looks like we’re just in time for the procession of La Madonna up to the Cathedral of Santa Maria. Che fortuna!”
“What happens after she get’s to the Cathedral?”
“We eat a lot of food and get rip-roaring drunk.”
“Sounds like my kind of festival.”
“Come on. I want to introduce you to my brothers.”
Marco and I drove our German motorcycles into Limosano, unaware that, over the next year, our friendship we be faced with the ultimate test.
Chapter Thirty
Preparations
Marco sat in the small living room of la Stregha Vechia’s house in San’Angelo. An assortment of dried herbs hung on the walls, and different pieces of dried roots, fungi, and other shriveled unrecognizable bits sat in jars and bowls on the various shelves and small tables in the room.
“You said the curse was going to work.” Marco had finally calmed down. Initially when Father D’Angello had told him that Carmella and Peter had been seeing each other, he didn’t believe it. But when he saw his best friend leaving Carmella’s house, it all became clear, like a fog had lifted from his perception. “What the hell went wrong? I trusted you. You’re supposed to be a powerful witch.”
“I didn’t realize Senoira Moccia was so involved in this.” The witch sipped a steaming mug of fragrant tea. “You weren’t completely honest with me. Her magic is just as strong as mine”
“Well now what am I going to do?”
Marco had resigned himself to the fact that maybe Carmella didn’t love him. As much as the notion tore violently at his heart, he had accepted the possibility that maybe Peter was the better man for her.
He felt twice betrayed. While he loved Carmella deeply, he loved Peter just as deeply. It was a different kind of love, but just as strong, and enough to break his heart a second time.
“I’ve been deceived by the two people I love the most. I don’t think my heart will ever mend from this, that I’ll ever be able to love again.”
“Be strong. You’re going to be the last man standing in the Tarantella. This I will make sure of.”
La Stregha Vechia finished her tea and went over to the altar in the corner of the room. She produced a small vile with a dark liquid in it and handed it to Marco.
“Drink this before the Tarantella begins. But do not let Senoira Moccia see you, or we will be in trouble.”
“I hope it works better than the last one.” Marco took the potion and put it in his pocket. “Or else I’m in big trouble.”
“This potion will help you fight the venom of la taranta. It will give you the endurance to last all night long.”
“You mean I’m going to be poisoned by a spider?”
Marco was surprised. He’d heard tales of the Tarantella. That the old Samnite witches used to take the spider venom ritually to induce visions of the future and to talk to the spirits of the ancestors and commune with the energies of the mountains. But over the years, the Tarantella had become known more as the frenzied, fast-paced dance, and there were contests to see who could dance the longest and hardest.
“I didn’t think that the spider venom was a real part of this tradition.”
“I warned you not to fool around with these spells. The Tarantella is the only way to break the magic. It is now for the spirits to decide whose love is the strongest for Carmella. I was worried that this might happen. But with the potion, you’ll be strong enough. Without it, I fear you will die not from the poison of spiders, but from the poison of love - a broken-heart.”
Chapter Thirty-One
Caught in the Web
“You’re going to poison me with spider venom?” I couldn’t believe what Carmella’s mother had proposed. “What good is that going to do for anybody? This is crazy!”
“I warned you.” Carmella looked despondent. “This whole idea is ludicrous Mama. What has gotten into you.”
“If Pietro doesn’t dance, he’ll die. La Strega Vechia’s spell is very powerful.” Mama Moccia explained calmly. “The spider venom is very potent. Some even have spiritual visions of God when they dance the Tarantella.”
“What’s the point of all this?” I wasn’t convinced that I was going to drop dead from the evil eye. “Why can’t we just work it out over a bottle of wine or something less dangerous than tarantula venom.”
“You and Marco will come to some kind of agreement through this dance,” Mama Moccia replied. “It will direct all the energy into the right channels. The spirits will choose the right man for Carmella.”
“Please say you won’t do it Pietro,” whispered Carmella. “It’s too dangerous.”
“I can’t back out now Carmella.”
“What am I going to do if you die?” Carmella was now crying, the tears streaming down her beautiful face. “I can’t marry Marco. I don’t love him. I’ll never love him as much as I love you.”
“I won’t die. I’ll only come out of this stronger. I can do it. Trust me.” I took Carmella into my arms and gave her a big hug. I didn’t ever want to let her go. I felt the tears well up in my eyes and flow like the spring rains. “If it means I have to die for you love, I will.” I sobbed. “I love you too much to ever let you go. If your ma says this is the only way than we must respect that. Our hearts will also be married Carmella.”
As I held Carmella deep in my arms, both of us crying our love for each other, I couldn’t fully comprehend the extent to which the Tarantella was going to transform my life forever. I still suspect to this day, that those two witches plotted this whole thing together. Not only to test the love Marco and I had for Carmella, but the love Marco and I had for each other. And ultimately, the love we had for ourselves.
Chapter Thirty-Two
La Tarantella
We met in the fields where Marco, Primo, Severino and I had scavenged the engine and tires for our tractor from the German kublewagen. We knew it was safe and there was the perfect recess in the ground where we had tripped the Nazi holzmine.
We agreed to meet in the field just as the sun was setting.
“That’s when the crack between the worlds open’s up,” Mama Moccia explained to me. “When the spirits see that we’re gathering, they’ll be easier to call into the dance. La Stregha Vechia will no doubt be bringing her own spirit-helpers to aid Marco. But don’t worry, I have my own allies that I will call into the dance to help you.”
“Allies? I thought that Marco and I had to dance this alone?” I was confused. “I didn’t realize that you could help.”
“The Grigori, the Watchers, are our spirit helpers,” she explained to me. “They are everywhere when you learn how to see them. After the circle is cast, and la Tarantella begins, we will call the Watchers down to aid you in your quest for knowledge and connection to the divine source. The Grigori open doors for us and lead us through them when we are ready. As guardians of these portals, the Grigori can undo the magical energy from a spell, making it useless. There are many reasons why these Watchers might intercede in such a manner. In this instance, we are asking them to undo any magical influences driving your feelings for Carmella. This will ensure that the love is pure, and of the highest vibration. You can’t fool the Grigori.”
When Carmella, her mother and I arrived, there was already a small group of people and musicians gathered in a circle. Primo was there tuning up his mandolin. There was also an impressive collection of tambourines, and other percussion style instruments, and, of course, a fiddler.
Father D’Angello was also there in the circle, dressed as if he was ready to say mass. He noticed that we’d arrived and came over right away.
“You realize that the Church cannot condone this Pagan ritual.” He held his rosary beads in one hand. “I am hear to only observe so that I can prepare a report for the Bishop in Rome.”
“I thought maybe you came to pray for the one who you think should take Carmella’s hand.” Mama Moccia wasn’t phased at all by the Priest. “We are all God’s children Father. You know as well as I as that the Church has nothing to worry about with la Tarantella.”
“This is an old and barbaric tradition,” huffed the priest. “And, God forbid, if anyone is hurt, I will see to it that this dance is banned all across the country and it never happens again.”
The priest turned around and went back to his spot on the other side of the circle, clearly unhappy that he had to spend the night outside in the field watching, and unwittingly participating, in the old pagan rite.
There was a brief commotion, and a clanging of tambourines, as Marco and La Stregha Vechia arrived and made their way into the circle. Marco looked calm and poised. The old witch carried a small covered basket, similar to the one that Carmella’s mother had also brought with her.
“Ok now we are ready to begin la Tarantella.” The sun had completed set now. Carmella’s mother walked into the middle of the circle with her basket and a small stick. “I want every one to form a wide tight circle around the two men.”
There was a momentary shuffle of people, and before I knew it, Marco and I were facing each other, like fighters in a ring ready to go twelve rounds.
“Perfect.” Mama Moccia took her stick and traced a circle in the ground, creating a boundary between the crowd and Marco and I. “Nobody enters the circle or leaves it until the sun rises and la Tarantella is complete.”
I could vaguely see nods of agreement from those outside the circle.
“Tonight we are here to call the Watchers in to intervene this grave matter of the heart. Two men have come to love the same woman, and they are willing to harm each other with the evil eye and other forms of charms and magic to gain the heart of this woman. This is unacceptable. There is only one way to ensure that their love is pure and of the highest vibration. That is why we are here this evening.” Mama Moccia put her hand into the basket and pulled out the largest spider I’d ever seen. She held the tarantula up to show the crowd. “This taranta has agreed to help us tonight. And for that we are grateful to her.”
Carmella’s mother brought the large spider over to where I was standing. She took my arm and placed the spider in my left hand, saying a few words to the insect under her breath. The tarantula felt warm and very fuzzy in my hand. I could feel its legs twitching as it crawled up towards my arm looking for a vein to administer its venom.
It didn’t take long for the spider to find what it was looking for. The pain of the bite was intense. I could feel the spider’s powerful jaws gouging my skin and it was only a matter of seconds before the venom started to make my arm go numb.
Mama Moccia took the Tarantula off of my arm and placed it on the ground. I watched it slowly scurry off into the darkness as Mama Moccia moved her hands quietly in a series of intricate symbols. I was acutely aware that I had started something that I now had no choice but to finish.
I noticed that La Stregha Vechia was doing the same thing with her own spider. She whispered to it and placed it on Marco’s hand. The insect immediately crawled up his arm and I could see Marco grimace as the spider took a bite of his flesh and injected its venom into his blood.
The old witch then took the spider and placed it on the ground, where it scurried off into the darkness. As the spider disappeared, La Stregha Vechia moved her hands quietly in a series of symbols, that looked similar, but were obviously different from the ones Carmella’s mother had finished outlining in the darkness.
As if on cue, the musicians started to play. The haunting melodies of Primo’s mandolin, and the scales of the fiddler blended into the fast-syncopated beat of the tambourines and drums. I could immediately feel the web of the music inside of me, urging me forward.
“Balli Pietro! Dance for your life!” I could hear Mama Moccia yelling at me over the music. But her voice sounded so far away. The music was so all encompassing, so invigorating, I couldn’t help but dance. I had to keep my eyes closed. Every time I opened them, I felt the numbness of my body, and the overwhelming urge to lie down and fall asleep. I wasn’t even aware of Marco, who was dancing in circles, only a few feet in front of me.
We danced around and around each other, following the peaks and valleys of the music. At one point, I could hear Carmella singing. Her beautiful voice lifting me higher and higher. There was a touching sadness to her songs that I will never forget. As if she was pleading with the Watchers to grant her the man she loved, that without that love she was better off dead, as her soul would never heal.
The faster I danced, the more alive I felt. I didn’t notice the numbness of the spider venom in my limbs. The faster I danced, the lighter my body felt. I thought that if I danced faster and faster, I could create enough momentum to fly, to soar above the circle and back to the village. At one point I thought I could easily fly back to Canada and rid myself of all this nonsense. As if I was waking from a long crazy dream.
But the thought of flying anywhere without Carmella was enough to keep my feet planted firmly on the ground, with a focus on the off beats of the tambourines.
The more I focused on the music, the more it carried me. I felt safe as if the music was weaving a protective web around me.
Then I started to hallucinate.
At first I saw the tarantula return. She danced with me, around and around, following my every step. Then the one spider multiplied into hundreds of spiders. They were everywhere, dancing with me, following the music. I wasn’t afraid. I felt like they were there to support me, to join me in celebrating my love of Carmella. There was a deep feeling of joy, as if the spiders were helping to confirm something that I had buried deep inside of me. That it was ok to feel such a profound love, that it was exactly that profound love that spun the invisible web that connected everything together. Without it, we were nothing. Without it we couldn’t survive.
As I continued to dance with those hundreds of Tarantulas, their black fuzzy bodies began to fade into the darkness, revealing a sea of small, unblinking, insect eyes, watching me, observing me.
As the music sped up, the eyes exploded into a million stars, and I found myself dissolving along with them into space.
The music then transformed into a beautiful sing-song voice, and out of the stars emerged a beautiful light that formed into an androgynous figure cloaked in white.
“I am the Spirit that lives in everything. I am the voice in the cosmos, in the wind, and in the nature of all that is.” The voice was calm. And there was a clarity to it that has always stayed with me, guiding me in the most difficult of situations. “I am also the voice within you. But you have forgotten how to listen in silence. You’ve denied that part of yourself which is so pure and so full of love. ”
“Are you God?” I barely blurted out. “Am I dead?”
“I am the Spirit that lives in all.” Answered the figure. “Do you chose death?”
“So I am dead.” I was convinced that the spider venom had killed me. I knew it was a risk. Carmella had begged me not to dance la Tarantella.
“You have much to learn still,” replied the Spirit. “You have seen much death and destruction in your few years alive. You have suffered killing and the fear of death. You are a soldier. But you are also a man capable of great love. I have been called to remind you that love is the most powerful force in the universe. It is the pure vibration of the soul that connects and destroys. It is stronger and more destructive than a million armies. And it is more forgiving and more empowering than anything you can ever imagine. It is what binds us all together in unity.”
I had no reply. I knew at a cellular level that this was the Truth. That love was the only reason for our existence. For my existence.
“Go now. And remember to always follow your heart. Even if it leads you first into darkness. Do not be afraid. If you listen closely, I am always with you. There will always be a light.”
The voice faded, and the music returned, overwhelming my senses. My legs continued to move with the beat, but I felt strangely disassociated with what was happening. Like my soul had not fully returned to my body.
Then the music stopped abruptly.
After a few seconds, I slowly opened my eyes. In the distance the sun was barely visible as it started to rise above the horizon.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Still Standing
Marco was still standing across from me. I could see he looked tired, but at peace with himself.
“The music has stopped. The sun has risen and both men are still standing.” La Stregha Vechia walked into the middle of the circle, gesturing first at Marco and then at me. “This can mean only one thing.”
“Nonsense old woman.” Carmella’s mother made her way into the middle of the circle, with Carmella close beside her. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“The young woman must chose,” La Stregha Vechia addressed the crowd. “The signs are clear. She loves both men.”
There was a loud murmur amongst the crowd. Some I could tell supported what La Stregha Vechia was saying. Others accused the witch of magic, arguing that it was impossible that both of the men could still be standing.
“First we must hear from the two men,” Carmella’s mother yelled over the increasing murmur., motioning to Marco and I. “We must give them the chance to talk. To explain themselves.”
All I could think of was sitting down on the ground. The exhaustion of the evening’s rite finally hitting me.
“Speak,” La Stregha Vechia motioned to Marco. “What did la Tarantella reveal to you?”
Marco considered the question very carefully. The crowd went completely silent. And after a few minutes he finally spoke.
“I’ve traveled this whole country believing in the power of love to protect and guide me. The love of la Madonna. The love of my family, and the love I felt for Carmella,” he began. “It was that love that greeted me each morning and gave me the strength to get through each day. It was love that kept me going those long days on the road without food or water. Now it’s this equal love of a woman and the love of brother that I must choose between. But if the woman doesn’t love me back, as much as I know my brother does, there is no real choice. It’s simple.”
The crowd around us erupted in discussion.
“Basta. Quiet!” Carmella’s mother tried to calm the crowd. “We must hear from the other man before we make any decisions.”
Carmella’s mother motioned to me to share.
It seemed like an eternity before the crowd became quiet enough for me to talk
“I’m far away from a home I can’t remember,” I said. “From family whose faces I can longer picture in my mind. I was only supposed to spend one night in your village. One year later I find myself still here, making one of the most important choices I may ever have to make in my life. I had a vision. A Spirit came to see me.”
There were loud murmur’s through the crowd. I could see Father D’Angello crossing himself. Marco was smiling at me.
“I was reminded of the power of love. That without it, we are nothing, that life is insignificant, meaningless. It is the glue that binds us all together. That unites both brothers and lovers.”
I dropped to my knees and took Carmella’s hands into mine.
“Carmella will you marry me?”
The crowd went completely silent. I could feel their eyes observing me, just like the vision of the hundreds of spiders I had earlier that evening.
“Oh Peter. Yes,” cried Carmella. “Yes, I’ll marry you!”
Chapter Thirty-Four
Transformations
If anything, la Tarantella brought Marco and I closer together. The ritual deepened the bond of our brotherhood to a level that neither Marco nor I have ever been able to talk about. It was a feeling. Something that was difficult to put into tangible terms, but that we both knew was there.
The tractor also proved to be quite a hit in the village and we had figured out a way to turn it into a wheat thresher for the fall harvest.
After la Tarantella we all stayed really busy taking shifts out in the fields ploughing and clearing mines. There was a real buzz about getting the village fields back into a state of working productivity.
The increased bit of cash flow also meant we could enjoy our leisure time that much more. In the evenings Marco, Severino, Primo and I enjoyed sitting around the kitchen table playing cards, and listening to the latest news on the radio.
“After Carmella and I get married, I’m going to take her back to Canada.”
Carmella and I had decided early that day that we’d go back to Canada and make a life there for us. It seemed like the right decision. There was a lot of opportunity back home for me. And I could only pretend to be dead for so long. It wasn’t really fair to my family.
“Why would you want to do that? We need you here,” exclaimed Marco. Right from day one he hadn’t wanted me to go. “You’re the best mine-clearer in a thousand mile radius. We’d be lost without you!”
“I miss my country. It’s time to go home.” I didn’t really feel like explaining to them all the reasons why I needed to go home. “You don’t need me anymore.”
“Suit yourself,” replied Severino without concern. “Sure we’ll miss you. But that tractor is going to make us rich. Especially when we get the thresher and combine working.”
“Hey it’s time for the news,” Primo turned the radio up. “I wonder what’s going on in the world.”
“Maybe we don’t want to know.”
Marco didn’t like listening to the news flashes. Every time it came on the radio he reminded us all that he’d seen enough of the war that he didn’t need to hear about it.
“This is a special news announcement,” crackled the radio. “After six months of intensive strategic fire-bombing of sixty-seven Japanese cities, President Harry S. Truman issued an executive order to the American air-force to drop the nuclear weapon Fat Man over Nagasaki today -the second such attack on Japan in three days. The bomb was dropped by parachute from an American B29 Bomber and exploded about five hundred meters above the ground. It is believed to have completely destroyed the city, which is situated on the western side of the Japanese island of Kyushu.”
“Mama Mia! The Americans dropped a second A-bomb!” Primo clapped his hands together in surprise. “Che macello!”
“I guess the war is really over,” observed Severino. “It’s about time.”
“I guess it really is time to go home,” I said.
“I guess it’s really true,” added Marco. “The world has just changed in probably the most significant way we’ll ever see in our lifetime. And I’m not sure if it’s for the good.”
A few weeks later Carmella and I were married in the Church of Santa Maria in Limosano. It was a simple wedding, led of course by Father D’Angello, but guided in large part by Carmella’s mother.
After the ceremony we danced and ate for what seem like days. The whole village joined in the festivities, and eventually people from as far as Castropignano were dancing and feasting with us.
Word spread far and wide about la Tarantella. Some people believed that there was a divine blessing of the union. Some thought we were bewitched. Father D’Angello eventually stopped sulking when he realized that the old rite had inspired more and more people to come into church. Not out of fear, but out of respect and a desire to connect with their own Divine source.
After all of those extraordinary experiences in Italy, I’m still amazed at how serious Italians take to their old “superstitions.” It’s not that I don’t believe in them. It’s just that I still can't figure out where the line is between the real and the unreal. Or if such a line even exists.
Late that fall, after the wedding party was over, and we’d recovered from all the food and wine, Carmella and I took the train from Campobasso to Napoli. We packed our few belongings into a couple of small suitcases, eager to start our new life together in Canada.
As a wedding present, Marco and his brothers gave Carmella and I all the money they saved from renting the tractor out that summer and fall. It was just enough to buy two first class tickets on one of the luxury steamers leaving for Canada.
The year we left, Marco married Stella Sciatta, and soon after they had their first child, of five, Pietro Alexandro.
Marco, Stella, and their five kids come to visit us in Canada sometimes, and every summer, Carmella and I still travel back to Limosano with our three children to visit the family.
Marco and his brothers managed to make a good living for quite a few years with the machines they built. I don’t know what happened to La Stregha Vechia. Last I heard she was still in San’Angello making her potions.
As for our tractor it’s still in the village, and even though nobody uses it anymore, it’s a reminder that with lots of hope, love, and a pinch of ingenuity, anything is possible.
****
Acknowledgements
This story is inspired by the true story of my grandfather, Arturo Pulla, an Italian Air Force mechanic who was captured by the Nazis in 1943 and brought to Milan to be shipped out to a Nazi death camp. Luckily he escaped from the Nazi’s with another Italian soldier. Together they made the long trek back south to Molise against the grain of the northern retreat of the Nazi forces.
Ever since I was a child this story has intrigued me. Unfortunately, I never knew my Nonno, so I never did hear the “true” story of his harrowing escape. I decided to add the Canadian element here because my Nona used to tell me stories about how the Canadian soldiers liberated Limosano. “They were so friendly,” she’d tell me. “And they certainly liked to drink. But anything was better than the mean German soldiers, who really liked their prosciutto. They would go from house to house taking all the food they could find. And they would also kill any young man they found hiding from them.”
As a child I also heard many stories about my Bisnona Carmella, who was the village mid-wife and “Stregha” in Limosano. She was a powerful woman who lived to be well into her nineties. People from many of the neighbouring villages would come to be “healed” by Nona Carmella, deliver their babies, and have the evil-eye broken. There are even stories of her bringing an ailing horse back to life with her “magic coin.” She was a kind woman, who went to church twice a day, and took mass very seriously. Spending time in those old medieval churches in the village also gave her ample opportunity to discuss the virtues of spiritual life with the many resident ghosts of the old Franciscan brothers who, after centuries, still couldn't leave their monastery.
Sometime I dream of my Bisnona. Unfortunately, I’ve still not mastered how to hold a conversation with her in the dialect of Limosano.
While I can’t confirm that the Tarantella was actually an old pagan ritual, I was struck by the possibility that maybe the spider venom was used by the old Italian Shamans and Streghi to induce visions, not unlike the powerful medicines that various healers around the world use for the same purposes. The skin and venom of Bufo alvarius, for example, has been used by Shamans in the southwestern United States and northern Mexico for centuries for spiritual purposes. We know that rhythmic stimulation of the human body at a rate of 210 beats per minute, combined with these medicines produces a profound change in consciousness, enabling one to experience alternate states of consciousness. While some tarantellas were definitely slower than 210 beats per minute, I’m sure that others easily matched this cadence.
Sources on the Canadian contribution to the Italian front in World War II included: The Assault on the Beaches of Pachino, Sicily; July 1943, By Maj, R. G. Liddell, reproduced from The Connecting File, April, 1946; and The Road to Campobasso and Beyond
October 11 to November 2, 1943 By G.K. Wright, from The Connecting File; April 1947.
These were both accessed online at www.theroyalcanadianregiment.ca/history/1939-1945.
Other reference material came from Canada at War: Canadians in Italy, 1943-1945, http://wwii.ca/page24.html.
Content on old Italian traditions was inspired by materials in Charles Leland’s classic. Aradia, Gospel of the Witches. Found online here: http://www.sacred-texts.com/pag/aradia/index.htm#contents.
“The Original Love Story: A Sermon for Christmas Eve” is credited to Rev. Bill Adams of Trinity Episcopal Church, Sutter Creek, California. http://www.rockies.net/~spirit/sermons/b-ch00-adams.php.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental, unless it is in the public record.
About the Author
Siomonn Pulla lives on Vancouver Island with his wife, Melanie, their two sons and their Bernese Mountain Dog Daisy. When Siomonn is not teaching university classes or working on scholarly pursuits, he’s writing fiction and spending time on the mountain or on the ocean connecting with nature.
To learn more about Siomonn check out his website: www.siomonnpulla.com